


Possession

by Relevant_Peach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-08 07:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relevant_Peach/pseuds/Relevant_Peach
Summary: Possessed by Voldemort at the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Harry commits a crime that has irrevocable impacts.  As he struggles to survive his changed circumstances, Lord Voldemort investigates the unexpected connection he has with the Boy-Who-Lived.  One simple possession changes everything.This story is on Temporary Hiatus.  The writing is a bit slower going than I'd hoped, and I've decided to finish it, and edit the entire work properly before I continue writing myself into a corner.  Sorry for those who are enjoying it, I promise that I'll finish it, but it's just going to take me a little bit of time.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 99
Kudos: 523





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! This new fic is going to be a slow burner, so updates will be further apart from previous fics. This is one of the first times I've posted a story that I haven't finished, but I'm committed to finishing it. I have all chapters mapped out, so I won't abandon it.
> 
> However, I've also found that, as I write, sometimes the story veers off in unexpected directions, requiring me to go back and change previous chapters. I'm going to try to keep that to a minimum, and I promise to let you know via Chapter notes when/if that happens.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please comment and let me know what you think of this one!
> 
> UPDATE: Feb 8, 2020 - This story is on Temporary Hiatus. The writing is a bit slower going than I'd hoped, and I've decided to finish it, and edit the entire work properly before I continue writing myself into a corner. Sorry for those who are enjoying it, I promise that I'll finish it, but it's just going to take me a little bit of time. Thanks for your patience

“Kill me now, Dumbledore” the words left Harry’s mouth without his permission, and with the pain in his scar, and the unexpected _fullness_ of his mind, he realized that he wasn’t alone in his thoughts. A small voice in his brain protested this intrusion, but, overcome by grief and guilt, he surrendered to weary resignation. Harry had been beaten-down for so long that nothing seemed worth fighting for anymore. He was aware of a startled exclamation from the foreign presence in his mind at this, but he didn’t care. The events of the night had been too much. Harry had been trying for so long to be what people needed him to be: A Saviour, a Teacher, a Beacon of Light. He was exhausted, and his failures stacked high around him. 

So, when his wand arm raised, unbidden by him, Harry tried feebly to resist, but something inside him altered with a satisfying _click_, and before he knew it, he was watching himself with detachment. Contentment flooded him like a wave of warm water. He briefly registered faint horror when he saw his hand pointing at Dumbledore. He vaguely felt his lips move, and, wrapped in his comforting blanket of detachment, he watched green light spit from his wand, and Dumbledore fall to the ground, still.

A moment later, the comforting presence in his mind departed hastily, and Harry was brought back to awareness with a thump. Realizations were coming hard and fast now. Sirius was dead. His friends were injured, possibly worse. Dumbledore was…still not moving. With a cry of alarm, he got unsteadily to his feet and weaved his way to where Dumbledore lay on the polished marble floor of the Ministry’s Atrium. Hesitantly, Harry brought a hand to the familiar, lined face. Dumbledore’s blue eyes were glassy, staring up at the ceiling. “S-sir?” he asked, fear making his voice wobble.

Whatever answer Dumbledore might have given was interrupted by the whoosh of the Floo. Harry’s addled mind registered that Minister Fudge was wearing pyjamas beneath his robes, and his lime green bowler hat was absent. His hair was ruffled and unkempt. There were several witches and wizards in the Atrium now, he realized, and many of them were speaking. The chaos overwhelmed him, and Harry longed to bury his face into Dumbledore’s robes.

“Potter? What’s going on?” Fudge sputtered. “Dumbledore?”

“I don’t know” Harry said quietly. “Something strange happened”

“What are you doing here?” Fudge asked, his voice sounding a bit high, and greatly fearful.

“Voldemort.” Harry said. “There was a Prophesy.”

“Sir” One of the Aurors, who had knelt down next to Dumbledore spoke sharply. “You need to see this”

Fudge hastened to the Auror, his eyes still on Harry. Harry felt his body, having consumed the adrenaline that had been coursing through his system, start to tire. He wanted to go back to Hogwarts. Even as he thought this, Harry knew that it would be hours yet before he was in his cozy four-poster. Fudge would want explanations. The Aurors would probably question him. Dumbledore would need to go to St. Mungo’s, and it would take ages to get this sorted out. 

“Dead?” Fudge’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “What’s happened here?” He reminded Harry of a large, grumpy baby, awoken from a nap too early, disoriented and cross as a result. A few seconds later, as the words he’d said penetrated the fog in Harry’s mind, he stilled. To his horror, the Auror waved his wand, and wrapped Dumbledore up in a dark cloth. It was a shroud, Harry suddenly understood. Dumbledore was dead.

More people had arrived in the Atrium while Harry was processing this. To his relief, one of them was Moody, who stumped up to where Harry was standing awkwardly. “Bad business, laddie,” he said gruffly, reaching into Harry’s back pocket and deftly retrieving his wand.

“Professor Moody, I-”

“Quiet!” He hissed at Harry out of the corner of his mouth. “If you want to have any hope of getting out of this mess, keep your fool mouth shut. Answer only the questions that are asked of you. Volunteer no additional information. I’ll be trying to keep you clear of Verituserum for the time being, since you’re a minor, but just belt up for now”

Harry’s mouth had fallen slightly agape at Moody’s hissed admonitions, but he shut it with a snap and allowed Moody to hold his arm firmly. As he stood there, and watched them float Dumbledore away, he grappled with the realization that Dumbledore was dead, killed by his own hand, if not by his own intention. Whatever trouble Harry feared he’d be in by breaking into the Ministry, it paled in comparison to the situation he now found himself in. Not for the first time, Harry longed for a parent to come and help him. With that, his thoughts strayed to Sirius, how the light had left his laughing eyes, and how he’d slipped through the gauzy curtains of the veil. 

Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Harry had orchestrated both fatalities through his foolhardy, impulsive actions. He swayed, the world turning on its axis for a moment. Moody gripped him harder, steadying him. “Hang on, Potter,” he said quietly. Harry longed for Hogwarts, for the privacy to weep over his own stupidity. Instead, he found himself in the vice-tight grip of two Aurors, their wands tightly wedged into his ribs. They quickly led him to the bank of elevators, pulling him inside the moment the doors opened. Moody stumped along behind, Fudge speaking in low urgent tones into his scarred ear.

The elevators stopped at the second floor, and the Aurors half-dragged him down the corridor and through a set of heavy oak doors. Harry noted the curious glances from the handful of Aurors who were still in their cubicles, despite the late hour. He felt an urge to cover his face from their eyes, but didn’t think that the Aurors who accompanied him would react well to any sudden movements. His stomach, always a bit hair-trigger in times of stress, roiled angrily, as one of the Aurors waved his wand at a door, and pointed towards a chair. “Sit” he said shortly.

Harry did as requested, and a set of heavy chains rose from the floor to secure his arms and legs. Panic welled up in him, and his head, already aching, started to spin. He felt tears spring into his eyes and hastily blinked them back. The Aurors, obviously convinced that Harry was secure, cast him a scornful look, and departed, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

In the quiet room, surrounded by the memories of what had transpired earlier that night, Harry desperately wanted to let fall the tears that were threatening, but he sniffled and bit the inside of his cheek. Harry knew that if anyone were watching him (and he was certain that someone was), they wouldn’t have a lot of patience for his emotions right now. Fortunately, Harry was very good at not crying. He tried not to remember the look of Dumbledore’s blue eyes as the life left them. It had happened through a haze, certainly, but the dawning understand that crossed the old Wizard’s features just before he fell etched itself in Harry’s mind's eye, and the scene replayed itself over and over.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the door opened, and a lanky man entered, balanced heavily on a walking stick. His hair was brownish, with streaks of grey, and Harry felt like he’d seen him before. The man sat on one of the chairs across from Harry, removed his gold-rimmed spectacles, cleaned them on his shirt, and finally replaced them on his nose. “Mister Potter” he greeted, a little formally. “My name is Rufus Scrimgeour. My colleague will be in shortly, and we will begin asking you some questions. Just a formality, you understand?”

Harry nodded, when it became obvious that the man was awaiting an answer. Harry was unsure what to say next, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. Harry was aware that the man, Scrimgeour, was watching him keenly, and so he schooled his features into a neutral expression. He wasn’t sure what the man was looking for, and so Harry resolved to give him nothing.

The door banged open, and another stranger entered, followed closely by a furious-looking Moody. “That will be all, Alistair” the man said.

“He’s a minor” Moody growled. “You can’t interrogate him without a guardian present, or legal representation”

“This isn’t an interrogation, Moody” Scrimgeour said. “We just have a few questions, I’m sure Potter doesn’t want to get his guardians out of bed this late?” At this, he looked inquiringly at Harry, who gulped.

“No, sir. I don’t want my guardians here. But could Professor Moody stay?”

Scrimgeour’s mouth was in a hard line, but Moody quickly said, “It’s me or McGonagall, Rufus.”

Scrimgeour sighed. “Fine” he said. “Mister Potter, we’ll be retaining memories of your testimony, just in case. Questioning of Harry James Potter, June 19th, 1996, 3...” He cast a quick _tempus_ wandlessly and continued smoothly, “17 am. Present are Rufus Scrimgeour, Head Auror, Gawain Robards, Deputy Head, and Alistair Moody, Auror, retired.”

With a glance at Harry, he continued “Mister Potter has declined the use of Verituserum, and this testimony will be considered accordingly.” _Well_ thought Harry. _He’s not directly saying that I’ll be lying, but he’s heavily implying it_. Harry’s misgivings grew, but he did catch a small, approving nod from Moody.

“Mister Potter, could you please explain how you came to be at the Ministry of Magic this evening?”

_Oh fuck_, Harry thought. _How am I going to get out of this without incriminating everyone, and letting the Ministry know about the visions?_ “I was unable to reach my god…friend, and I worried that he was in danger…here” he said lamely. Scrimgeour raised one bushy eyebrow at him and gestured for him to continue.

“Some of my friends from school found out that I was coming to try to rescue my friend, and decided to come with me. When we were here, a number of Death Eaters arrived and attacked us in the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix Lestrange…I chased her to the Atrium. Voldemort came, as well as Dumbledore. They fought. I don’t really remember what happened next, just that I came to, and Dumbledore was lying on the ground.” The tears that had earlier threatened to fall, spilled down his cheek then.

Scrimgeour’s eyes were hard as he watched Harry. He knew that Potter and Dumbledore had been claiming that Voldemort had returned for a year now, but there’d been no hard evidence. Still, though, the child’s story had more holes than substance. “Who was this friend of yours?”

Harry sighed. He supposed there was no harm in answering. Sirius wouldn’t be coming back anyways. “Sirius Black, sir.”

“Sirius Black?” The voice came from the doorway, where Fudge had appeared. 

Harry looked up from where he’d been examining his knees. “He’s my…was my Godfather.”

“Was?” Moody asked sharply.

“He…Bellatrix Lestrange cursed him, and he fell into an archway. In the Department of Mysteries. He didn't come back out.”

“What were you doing there?” Fudge’s voice was rising in pitch again. It made Harry’s head, already sore, pound harder.

“L-looking for Sirius. I believed that Voldemort had taken him”. Harry’s entire body was tense. He knew that he needed to tread carefully here, especially now that Fudge was in the room.

“Why did you believe that?” Scrimgeour’s voice was even, and his face betrayed nothing.

“Sometimes I have dreams. This time, I had one while sitting my OWL. It was very vivid, and I was frightened that Voldemort was going to hurt Sirius.”

“There is no evidence that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back!” Fudge was huffy.

“I’d say that a dead Headmaster in your Atrium is fairly good evidence,” Moody growled.

“Potter was the only one in the Atrium with Dumbledore,” Fudge argued.

“Honestly, Minister,” Scrimgeour said. “Do you really expect me to believe that a 15 year old boy could kill one of the greatest Wizards we’ve ever seen? Not to mention the fact that he and Mister Potter were quite close, weren’t they Moody?”

“Yes,” Moody answered shortly. “Albus thought the world of Potter. I’d no sooner accuse the boy of murdering Albus than I would Minerva McGonagall.”

Harry remained quiet during this exchange, focusing on keeping his face expressionless. He warmed slightly at Moody’s defence of him, but the fact remained. He **had** killed Dumbledore, even if it hadn’t been his own idea.

“Well, I don’t know,” Fudge sputtered. “We still never conclusively determined what happened to the Diggory boy. Very convenient Mister Potter, that people around you seem to conveniently turn up dead.”

Harry had been trying to remain stoic and quiet during this exchange, but at Fudge’s words, a damn in him broke, and a single sob escaped him before he bit his lip. His hands were still chained, so he was unable to wipe the tears that flowed down his cheeks. It hurt, that the Minister was only speaking the truth. He brought disaster to everyone he knew.

“Cornelius! That’s enough!” Scrimgeour snapped. He turned back towards Harry. “You’ll have a chance to explain more at your trial. We’ll end the interview here.”

Fudge looked as though he were about to say something, but Scrimgeour repeated “Enough,” before waving his wand and removing the chains from Harry’s arms and legs.

“S-sir?” Harry asked, in a wavering voice.

“What is it?” Scrimgeour’s voice was almost kind.

“Will I have to go to Azkaban tonight?”

“Not tonight, son. You’ll be in the Ministry holding cells for a few days while we process you.”

The walk to the holding cells passed in a blur. It was just Scrimgeour now, Robards and Moody having detained Fudge. Harry was grateful. He knew that the Minister had it out for him, and he dreaded how Fudge would use him as a pawn to drive his propaganda machine. Harry was pretty sure he didn’t have it in him to think about that tonight.

It took almost no time. They gave him prison robes to change into, and took his glasses away. Why…was it just to be cruel? Finally, Harry was shown to a cell, and Scrimgeour left, and Harry was left alone. He lay on the uncomfortable pallet on the ground, turned his back on the bars, and, finally, let the tears that had been choking him fall.

***

“Potter”. The voice was familiar, but was hissing in a loud whisper. Harry started awake, hastily removing the thumb that had migrated into his mouth while he slept.

“Who’s there?” He asked, squinting at the bars.

“It’s Moody. I need to know what happened if we’re going to get you out of here”

“You want to help me?”

“Yes, Potter, Albus was very clear what we were to do if you ever got into trouble.”

“Oh, okay. Well, thanks, truly. Listen, I think that Volde-”

“Shut UP!” Moody hissed urgently. “Have you any sense at all, you fool boy? You can’t talk in here, unless you want the Minister’s staff and the papers to know everything you say.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course, I didn’t think.”

“You didn’t. Let me take your memory.”

This gave Harry pause. He’d been fooled by a fake-Moody before, trusted him with all sorts of information that ended with Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s rebirth. Plus, he didn’t really know Moody that well. This could be a setup, he knew. But, there was nobody else who seems to want to help him, and he felt it might be difficult to end up _more_ fucked than he already was. “I don’t have my wand”

“Here. Use mine”. That was even more surprising, frankly. Moody was the most paranoid person Harry knew, and Harry was technically an accused murderer. With an internal shrug, Harry reached out, grabbed the wand, and extracted the shimmering white thread of the memory. As Moody snatched back his wand and deposited the memory in a phial, Harry wasn’t sure if he’d done the smartest or most foolish thing yet.


	2. Azkaban

The Wheels of the Ministry moved extremely slowly. Moody arrived two days later to find Harry with his back turned, lying on the pallet. “Potter,” he said gruffly. The small figure in the cell didn’t move. “Potter,” he repeated, louder this time. Harry gasped awake, and turned to peer out at Moody.

“Professor?” He asked. His voice was hoarse, and Moody could see by his red eyes that he’d been crying.

“Potter, I wanted to tell you before Fudge gets to you. You’ll have a trial, but it’s summertime. The Wizengamot is on holiday for three weeks. They’re going to transfer you in the meantime.”

Harry moaned. “To where?” His voice was so small and young that Moody’s gruff exterior softened.

“To Azkaban, lad. I’m sorry.”

Harry reeled backwards as though Moody had struck him. His face whitened. “Oh,” he said softly. 

“I’ll come visit,” Moody found himself offering, unsure why this waif of a boy tugged at his hardened heart so.

“Do…do you think that you could find me a lawyer? Do Wizards have lawyers? I have some gold in my vault. I think that I could pay for one.”

“Yes, Wizards use lawyers. I’ll call a Barrister for you, bring them to Azkaban.”

“Thank you professor. You’ve been really kind.”

“Potter. I watched the memory,” Moody said suddenly.

Harry’s eyes widened, and filled with shame and grief. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand, sir. If you saw what happened, why are you helping me?” Moody noted that Harry was careful not to incriminate himself, and felt a small surge of pride.

“I’ll tell you someday. When all of this is over,” Moody answered. It wasn’t a real answer, but was the best that he could do in the circumstances.

Moody turned to leave and when he was nearly out the door when he heard the small voice one more time. “Professor?”

“What is it, Potter?”

“What’s it like? Azkaban? Will…will I be okay?”

Moody wondered for a moment how to answer the question. Did he tell this broken, hurting boy that it would rob him of any scrap of happiness that he’d managed to gather in his life? Did he say that the Dementors weren’t the worst part, as terrible as they were? That the endless, damp cold, and the screams of the other prisoners would chip pieces away from his soul until there was nothing left. Turning back to regard the skinny boy, he couldn’t bear to say any of this, so he simply said “You’ll be alright. You’re strong. Albus believed in you.”

***

Several miles to the south, in an aging Manor near the sea, Lord Voldemort stood gazing into a roaring fire. He sipped from a glass of scotch, deep in thought. The celebrations over Dumbledore’s defeat had lasted for days, and many of his faithful still lingered in various states of inebriation. Lord Voldemort, however, had not joined in the festivities, short of a bracing speech and a cursory toast. He’d since been holed up in his study, with only his most loyal advisor to join him.

“That was an unexpected victory, My Lord” Lucius said.

“It was. The old fool’s death was a boon, but there is much work to be done now. That simpering moron of a Minister will use this to bolster his position, and undermine the Potter boy in one fell swoop.”

“Perhaps” Lucius allowed. “Or, this could be used to contribute to Fudge’s downfall.”

“I’m listening”

“If you were to take responsibility for Dumbledore’s death-”

Voldemort made a warning noise deep in his throat and Lucius tensed for a moment, but finally, the Dark Lord gestured for him to continue.

“Taking credit for Dumbledore’s death will remind the Wizengamot and the general populous that you’re far more powerful than he was. Considering how highly-regarded Dumbledore’s magical abilities were, this would only increase your reputation. It could also, with the correct media interpretation, be used to discredit the current Minister, and replace him with one of your choosing.”

“But who could we replace him with? I’m not yet ready to take the Ministry by force. Doing so would cause a mass exodus from Britain, and we already have a population decline.”

“Thicknesse? We’ve had him under imperio for months already.”

“No. He’s malleable, but not likeable enough. We need someone who is trusted.”

“If you wish, My Lord, I will provide you with some dossiers to consider. If you decide this is the right course of action, it is likely to unfold quickly.”

“Yes, do so.”

“My Lord? What of the Potter boy? I understand that he is in Azkaban, awaiting trial for Dumbledore’s murder. Shall I arrange for the Dementors to kill him?”

Voldemort considered this. On one hand, it would solve a number of problems. Harry Potter had blundered his way into thwarting the Dark Lord’s plans on more than one occasion. However, despite his intelligence, Voldemort was proud, and it smarted to have been bested by a child as many times as he had.

“No,” he said coldly. “I wish to see him disgraced, ostracized by the public that once loved him. I wish for them to see him as he really is…a foolish boy who clung to an old Wizard’s robes. We will allow the media to turn on him, and, by extension, the Wizarding population will have no further hero-worship for the Boy who Lived.”

“Very well, my Lord. I will prepare the information on the candidates for Minister, and arrange for some well-placed leaks to the media.”

“When is Potter’s trial?”

“Three weeks from this Thursday, My Lord”

“Very well, we shall need to act before then”

“As you wish”

Lucius bowed, and exited the study and left Voldemort to his thoughts. Everything was falling into place. With a sigh of satisfaction, Voldemort sat in the comfortable armchair by the fire, and allowed Nagini to twine herself around his neck.

***

In the middle of a turbulent ocean, high in a drafty tower, Harry was huddled and shivering in a corner of his cell. The first few days had been the worst. The Dementors had prowled by his cell often, and each time, Harry, amid the fearful dying cries of his parents, had collapsed into unconsciousness, waking hours later, overcome by dread. The cold, damp air seeped into his body, and, coupled with the despair, he’d lapsed into a near-catatonic state. He’d been unable to try to eat, and after a few days, Healer David Mitchell, who was responsible for the prisoners, had been summoned.

“Prisoner, you must eat and drink” Mitchell’s voice wasn’t unkind, but he was responsible for dozens of similarly damaged people, and he’d learned not to get attached to any of his charges.

“I’m sorry” Harry said croakily. “I just can’t. I’ve tried.”

The Healer tutted in annoyance, and spelled some nutritional and hydration potions directly into Harry’s system. Harry’s eyes grew wide, and, with no warning, immediately vomited the potions all over himself. Mitchell sighed and raised his wand to spell the boy clean. “Oh no” Harry gasped, shrinking away in terror. “I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry, I won’t do it again, please don’t hurt me, I’ll be good”

“Prisoner, stop. I don’t have any intention of hurting you-” Mitchell hurried to reassure the boy.

“I’ll be good, I’m sorry, please!” The boy seemed to be trapped in a memory, his green eyes enormous and full of tears. “Please, sir”

David Mitchell was torn. A strong detachment was necessary in order to continue to treat the patients of Azkaban, but everyone knew who Harry Potter was. He was still a child, and his short life had already presented many trials. Mitchell hesitated for a moment before pulling the thin boy into his arms to try to offer him some comfort. This had an unexpected result. Harry shrieked in terror and curled into a ball. “Please Uncle Vernon, no, please don’t!”

Someone had hurt this boy, David realized. He summoned a calming draught and spelled it into Harry’s system, followed quickly by an anti-nauseant. He managed to keep those down, and his eyes glazed, the potion quickly taking effect. Mitchell levitated the boy back to his cell. He tried to stay out of politics, preferring to do his job and evade attention, but he found himself wondering at the wisdom of the Minister. A teenaged boy, in a place like this? They’d be lucky if there were anything left of the Chosen One when they were through with him.

***

Moody despised going to Azkaban. Contrary to outward appearances, he wasn’t a cruel man, and despite his repeated calls for prison reform over the years, nothing had been done about the Wizarding prison. The Dementors, Moody felt, were loathsome creatures, and, regardless of what anyone did wrong, subjecting them to their constant presence was inhumane. It also, he had asserted dozens of times, completely destroyed any chance of rehabilitation, since, repeated exposure to a Dementor destroyed a Wizard’s mind. So, as he sat in the tiny boat and waited to reach the dock, he was filled with dread. But, he’d promised to visit the Potter boy, and, bringing him a Barrister was the only thing he could think of that might help him. 

The situation was beyond grim, he realized. After performing _Priori Incantatum_ on Potter’s wand, the Aurors had found that _Avada Kedava_ had been the last spell he’d performed. Despite Moody’s protests that a fifth year student who loved Albus Dumbledore couldn’t possibly have mustered the emotion or skill required to kill him, the evidence seemed incontrovertible. The boy’s story had been rife with holes. Fortunately, Harry had realized that letting the Ministry know of his link with Voldemort’s mind would be a mistake, but without that explanation, his presence at the Department of Mysteries that night was suspect. Combined with his admission that it had been Sirius Black he’d been attempting to rescue, Potter was going to be difficult to defend.

These facts didn’t seem to daunt his chosen Barrister in the slightest, however. Hestia Jones had been a member of the Order since late in the first Wizarding War. Moody knew her to be brave, fair, and incredibly clever. Mostly, he’d chosen her because she was one of the few people who hadn’t already mentally tried and convicted Potter for Dumbledore’s death. The Prophet had, of course, sensationalized the events of that night. The morning afterward, the headlines screamed that the pressure of having been the Chosen One had caused the boy to snap, and, that if he’d turned on his most-loved Headmaster, he was unfit to be in society.

Fudge had enacted his propaganda machine thereafter, using the boy’s transfer to Azkaban to underpin just how safe the Wizarding world was under the Minister’s guidance. It had been a travesty. More disturbing, however, had been the way that the Order members had reacted to Harry’s arrest. Those who had formerly been staunchly on Potter’s side were suddenly quiet. The Weasley family had, it seemed, gone into hiding, which was as surprising as it was disappointing. The family that had seemingly adopted Potter as one of their own had, in the day following the skirmish at the Ministry, gathered their two youngest from the Hogwarts infirmary and returned to the Burrow, which was suddenly unplottable and under Fidelius. 

When Moody had attempted to gather the Order to discuss freeing Potter, few members had responded to his summons. Severus Snape, a man whose loyalty was questionable at best, in Moody’s opinion, and Remus Lupin, both arrived at Headquarters to assist with strategy. Snape had been spectacularly unhelpful. When he wasn’t making unproductive japes at Potter’s foolishness, he was taunting the werewolf, who seemed to be capable of nothing more than sighs and tears. Minerva had owled that she was too busy trying to keep Hogwarts running to help. Hagrid hadn’t even responded. In desperation, Moody had gathered Hestia, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, three people he felt he could trust with the true story.

Thus, he and Hestia were now heading to visit Harry, and begin work on his defence. The boat scraped against the moorings, interrupting Moody’s thoughts, and he extended an arm to assist Hestia onto shore. She winked pertly at him, and hopped from the boat unassisted. With only a small roll of his eyes, Moody followed Hestia to the registration area. Wands registered, they were guided by one of the few human guards to a cell on the highest floor. It was a lonely, depressing place, and Moody fought the urge to simply return to the boat and head back towards civilization.

Instead, he gloomily followed Hestia to Harry’s cell and peered inside. “Potter” he said. The huddled figure in the corner didn’t move. Hestia made a concerned sound as she gazed at the pathetic little figure.

“Open the doors” Moody commanded. 

The guard looked startled and said “Sir, it’s not protocol”

“I don’t give a fig for protocol. Open this cell immediately”

His reputation obviously preceded him, because the guard hurried to the door and opened it. Hestia rushed inside and crouched next to Harry. “Alistair,” she said quietly. “It’s bad.”

It was worse than simply ‘bad’. Harry was largely incoherent. He’d lost weight in the week that he’d been here, and Moody admitted that he’d been thin even before that. Now, he looked gaunt. His complexion was grey, and long, furrowed scratches graced his face and neck. Harry had obviously clawed himself in terror or frustration. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, a byproduct of days of crying. As Moody picked him up, he seemed so frail that Moody felt he could have crushed him into dust with no effort at all.

“Sir, what are you…you can’t touch a prisoner...” The guard was hopping anxiously from foot to foot. He had orders, protocols, but he was obviously so cowed by Moody’s presence that he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Get out of my way, you fool, I’m taking him to a Healer. If you had any sense at all you’d realize that he’s practically dead.”

Moody carried the boy, flanked closely by Hestia down the hall and took the lift to the Healer’s office. He wandlessly flung the door open, and entered, growling “Mitchell, get your arse over here.”

“What is it?” David Mitchell exited his office and entered the treatment room, stopping short when he saw the bundle in Moody’s arms. “Put him on the table,” he muttered.

As he waved his wand, Mitchell hissed in displeasure. “This child is crying out any hydration I give him before it has a chance to do anything. I can’t keep up.” A tense few minutes followed, Mitchell casting healing spells, and administering potions. Mitchell paused for a moment, assessing whether his efforts had done any good. A pair of enormous green eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry!” Harry gasped. “I’ll be good!”

“Shh, Harry, it’s okay.” Mitchell gathered the boy into his arms and stroked his hair. “You’re fine. You’re a good boy, you’re not in trouble.” It was patently false, that last statement. Harry _was_ in trouble.

Moody was eyeing him suspiciously. Mitchell hurried to explain. “We’ve done this every day since Harry arrived. He’s not coping well here.”

“This is inappropriate,” Moody growled.

“Is it? My vow said that I would give comfort, and ease suffering. This seems to be the only way I can help him.”

Harry was whimpering now, his face buried in the Healer’s robes. David stroked the boy’s back until the storm of tears ended. “Better?” David asked. A small nod.

As if becoming aware of the scrutiny, Harry suddenly tensed and pulled himself from Mitchell’s arms, looking at Moody in terror. “Professor!”

“Potter,” Moody said.

“I’m so sorry. Please don’t get Healer Mitchell into any trouble. It’s all my fault.”

“’s fine” Moody muttered, uncomfortable with the situation, but unwilling to upset the boy any further.

“Harry?” Hestia had remained quiet to this point, but spoke now. “Do you remember me? My name is Hestia Jones. I’m a Barrister, and I’m here to help you.” Hestia reached out to shake Harry’s hand, making sure that her robe sleeve rose enough to expose the small tattoo of a Phoenix near her thumb. Harry’s eyes widened and met hers. With a reassuring nod, Hestia beamed at him, and Harry relaxed.

“It’s nice to see you again Madame Jones,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry you have to be here. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry, I’m here fairly often, and I’m happy to be taking on your defence.”

“You are?” A tiny spark of hope alit his beautiful eyes. Hestia had known Harry’s parents. Not well…they’d been several years older than she, but Order members were a tight-knit bunch, and Hestia knew that Lily and James would be devastated to see how life had treated Harry so far. 

“Yes, Harry. We don’t have the easiest case ahead of us, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. We won’t just leave you here, Harry.” She noted a tiny tensing of his shoulders at her words, but looked to the Healer. “Is Harry well enough to come have a chat with me?”

David nodded. “Yes, I think so. Harry, do you remember that we talked about eating and drinking?”

Harry’s face flushed. “Yes. I’m sorry, Healer Mitchell. I’m trying, but I keep sicking up anything I swallow.”

David placed a hand on his shoulder. “The potion I gave you will help with that. I’ll clear you to go speak with your visitors, but only if you have a meal while you’re speaking with them.”

Harry nodded, and Hestia helped him off the table. He was weak, and stumbled, but her firm grip on his arm steadied him, and they made their shaky way to a warded conference room. As Harry sat down, a goblet of water and a bowl of thin gruel appeared in front of him. He squared his shoulders and sighed, picking up a spoon. “I think we can do a little better than that” Hestia said with a smile, and pulled a carrier bag she’d shrunk and placed in her pocket earlier. Inside was a flask of pumpkin juice and a container of warm oatmeal, with berries and cream. “It’s still light, so it probably won’t make you sick, but it’s a bit more appealing than the usual fare here”. At Harry’s astonished look, she smiled. “I told you, Harry, I work with people in Azkaban all the time. I have chocolate for you as well, for…later”. For when the Dementors came, she meant.

Harry looked at her gratefully, and the tiniest smile graced his features. “You’re like an angel,” he said to her quietly. Hestia’s heart warmed. 

“You think that now, but just wait and see how much of a devil I can be in the courtroom. I’m very good at my job, Harry, and I will do anything I can to help you.”

They discussed his case for a while. Despite his lack of confidence in himself, Harry wasn’t stupid, Moody realized. He knew exactly how low his chances of an acquittal were. However, he was helpful, polite, and exceedingly grateful for their help.

Soon enough, their appointed visiting time was over, and they stood to escort Harry back to his cell. As the approached the door, Harry paused. “Professor Moody?” He asked in a quiet voice.

“What is it, lad?”

“If…if things don’t go well in court. Um. Could you please kill me?”

Moody started.

Harry hurried to continue. “I know it’s a coward’s way out, and I’m sorry to ask you, but…I won’t last here anyways, and I can’t think of anything worse than just waiting it out. Besides, I’m not much good as cannon fodder for Voldemort if I’m trapped in here. At least this way I’d be surrounded by people who were kind to me.”

Moody again questioned how this boy could wrench his nonexistent heart so. “Don’t worry lad. If things don’t go your way, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you. I…I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Hermione or Ron?” His face was so hopeful, even as he suspected the answer.

“No, lad. The Order’s a bit splintered these days. Hard to reach people.” Moody couldn't look him in the eyes.

Harry’s face fell. “Oh. Of course. Thanks”

As they walked away from the cell, and heard Harry’s quiet sniffles, Moody paused. Should he just stun the guards and break Harry out? It would mean they’d have to go into hiding, but surely it was less cruel than this. A hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts. “Ali” Hestia said softly. “It’s better this way. He needs his due process.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Moody said gruffly. She smiled gently at him, but later, as they took the boat back to the mainland, tears rolled down Hestia’s cheeks, and Moody was certain it wasn’t just the wind that caused them.


	3. Winds of Change

The day before Harry’s trial, Hestia arrived on the island, Moody in tow. They made their way to the consultation room, where Harry was waiting for them. Their daily visits had made a huge difference in Harry’s mental state. He was still thin and more withdrawn than Moody thought possible, but he managed a wan smile when they arrived. Hestia rushed to him and wrapped the slight boy in her arms. He tensed, as always, but Hestia persisted, and soon, the tense muscles slackened and he relaxed into her hug.

“Thank you,” he breathed, when she finally released him. “That really helps.”

She gifted him with a fond smile before getting down to business. “So,” she said crisply. “I’ve brought you some dress robes for tomorrow. The guards will give you time and space to get ready, and bring you to the Ministry. We’ve practiced your testimony so many times that I don’t think it would help us to do so again. You’re ready, Harry.”

“Madame Jones-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Hestia?” She smiled but it quickly faded as she exchanged a look with Moody.

“Tell him,” Moody said.

“The political landscape has changed some while you’re been here, Harry. It might change the way the trial goes.”

Harry’s eyes flickered with hope before deadening again. “What is it?” he asked dully.

“It’s this,” Hestia said. She pulled out a copy of the morning’s Prophet. The front page headline shouted, in bold text: **Lord Voldemort claims responsibility for Dumbledore’s death**.

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he read the article quickly. The body of the article offered little more than the headline, that Voldemort had left the badly-beaten body of a low-level Ministry employee in the Atrium of the Ministry. The employee had a phial, with a memory, in which Voldemort possessed Harry’s body and cast the Killing Curse at Albus Dumbledore.

After he’d read it through twice, Harry looked up. “I don’t understand,” he finally said. “Why would he do this?”

“We’re not sure,” Moody said. “Possibly to strike fear into the community. This is the second time Voldemort has entered the Ministry without detection. It could just be a ploy to incite unrest.”

“Why would he help me, though? Even if he has a broader agenda, and me being freed is a side-effect? He’s been after me his entire life. Why wouldn’t he want me to die?”

“Perhaps it’s too personal,” Hestia said. It was obvious that she and Moody had already discussed this at length. “If he’s been trying to kill you for years, he may want to finish the job himself.”

“But why would he be so short-sighted?” Harry wondered.

“Lad, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never try to find reason in the actions of a madman. His actions don’t make sense, because _he_ doesn’t make sense.”

“I suppose,” said Harry. “but it’s strange. Does it change anything about my trial?”

“Some things, certainly,” Hestia said. “I don’t think that there’s any value in changing your testimony, but I’ll adjust my opening and closing arguments. There’s no point in trying to hide your link with Voldemort’s mind now, either. Don’t mention it, but if it comes up, don’t deny it either.”

Harry nodded, obviously still thinking about why Voldemort hadn’t used the opportunity to have him Kissed. Hestia spoke again. “Anyhow, since we’re here,” she reached for her shrunken carrier bag and unshrunk it. Inside was a large treacle tart and a flask of butterbeer. 

Harry suddenly grinned at her. Hestia watched him nibble at the tart, his face brighter than she’d ever seen it. “There’s a particular house elf at Hogwarts who seems awfully fond of you,” she said. “He said that this was your favourite.”

Dobby. Harry smiled again. “Thanks, Hestia. It is. Imagine him remembering.” He regarded her through his eyelashes. “Isn’t he upset with me, though? About Dumbledore?”

“The elf? No, he spent an awfully long time telling me that ‘Master Harry Potter is a great Wizard’. I’d say he’s still quite fond of you.”

“But what about everyone else?” he asked finally. “I expect that people are awfully upset with me.”

Hestia looked uncomfortable. “Some,” she admitted finally. “But that’s a problem for a different day. For tonight, just focus on getting a good night’s sleep and be ready for what tomorrow brings.

***

Tomorrow, it turned out, had brought an entirely changed landscape. Early in the morning, Harry found himself awoken by Moody, who was joined by Robards, the mostly-silent man who had been part of Harry’s interrogation at the Ministry. Harry stumbled to his feet, disoriented. He’d had a particularly bad night, interspersed by terrible nightmares. The Dementors had been especially restless, Harry’s thrashing and crying giving them a great deal to feed on. 

“Hurry, we have to go,” Moody said.

“Um, will I shower before I put on my robes?” Harry wondered. Hestia had said that he’d have lots of time to prepare for his trial, so this rushed start had him off-centre. Had Moody slept in?

“No time, just put your robes on over those,” Moody muttered, gesturing towards Harry’s prison-issued shirt and pants. With a confused shrug, Harry hurriedly complied. Robards remained silent, but watched Harry closely. When Harry was dressed, Moody pulled him towards the cell doors. “Come on, Potter, we have to go!”

Harry was quickly escorted to the waiting boat, Moody casting suspicious glances around him the whole time. Robards had his wand out. A little frightened, Harry didn’t dare ask any questions. When the boat reached the opposite shore, Moody grabbed one arm, and Robards the other, swiftly apparating them away. 

They landed, Harry stumbling, and having to be steadied by the men holding him, in an alleyway off a busy street. “Where are we?” Harry whispered.

“London. Come on.” Moody set off down the alleyway, and Harry felt magic wash over him. “Disillusionment charm,” Moody muttered in his ear.

They entered an office building and took the lifts to the second floor. The sign on the doorway read ‘Jones, Jones and Murphy, Barristers and Solicitors’. Moody dragged Harry through the door and a waiting receptionist smiled at them. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

Finally, they reached another door, and Harry was dragged through that as well. He was beginning to lose patience with the way he’d been manhandled across the UK this morning, but his gratitude for what Moody had done so far overrode his desire to complain. He was gestured to a chair, and sat, looking around to see Hestia, as well as an enormous man wearing brightly coloured robes sitting across the table from him. Hestia beamed at him. “Harry,” she said softly.

“Good morning Madame…Hestia,” Harry said, smiling back. He figured that this must be some sort of pre-trial conference, although the tall man was a new addition to his legal team. Harry thought he looked vaguely familiar, and so he nodded in the man’s direction.

“Hello Harry, we’ve met before, but my name is Kingsley,” the man said. “We’re just waiting for a couple more people.” There was a commotion outside the door, and a woman with bubblegum pink hair fell through the doorway, a huge grin on her face.

She was followed by a much more sedate man, who looked much older than her.

“Oh, good,” said Hestia. “We’re all here”. She spelled the door closed, and Moody muttered a number of aditional spells, which Harry assumed were wards.

“First,” Hestia said. “Introductions. You might remember Kingsley Shacklebolt.” Kingsley smiled at Harry, who nodded back. “You know Moody, of course, and Gawain Robards. And I think you’ve also met the pink-haired menace who tried to destroy my office, Nymphadora Tonks.”

“Wotcher, Harry.” Tonks said with an enormous grin. Harry found himself smiling in return.

“And this,” Hestia said, gesturing at the tall man beside Tonks, “Is my Uncle Gideon. He’s a Solicitor as well, and I work here with him.”

“A lot has happened since we saw you yesterday,” Hestia said, her big brown eyes crinkling. Harry started to feel nervous. “Don’t worry,” she continued hurriedly. “It’s all good. We think.”

Harry took a big breath. Kingsley smiled at him and spoke. His voice was incredibly deep, and he had a hint of a rich, warm accent. “As I think you heard, Voldemort claimed responsibility for Dumbledore’s death.” Harry nodded. “Late last night, the Wizengamot called a vote of non-confidence against Minister Fudge. Do you know what that means?”

Harry shook his head, wondering what this had to do with him, and whether they’d be late for his trial. Kingsley continued. “Essentially, when the Wizengamot feels that the Minister is no longer capable of leading, they have a vote, and if enough people agree, the Minister is forced to step down. The vote was held last night, and an overwhelming majority vote forced Minister Fudge to resign. As you can imagine, that causes some instability in government operations. All legal proceedings are halted. This means that you won’t be going to your trial today.”

Harry’s heart sank. He hadn’t had a lot of hope that he’d be cleared today, but his spirits sank completely at the idea of going back to Azkaban without even having his trial. He felt his head droop, and, completely beyond his control, fat tears slipped down his cheeks and dripped onto his robes. “Professor Moody,” he said quietly. “Please…”

“Harry,” Kingsley’s voice was reassuring, and, he felt Moody’s hand grip his shoulder firmly. “Please don’t get upset just yet. There’s more.”

Harry looked up, and Kingsley was still smiling at him. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he replied, his voice shaky.

“In an effort to stabilize day-to-day operations, the Wizengemot has appointed Rufus Scrimgeour as Interim Minister. You met him the night you were questioned in the Ministry. Although normally, events like this would require you to await trial at Azkaban until the schedule can be resumed, Minister Scrimgeour, who has been involved in your case, has determined that there isn’t enough evidence to hold you. As of now, you’re going to be released. Voldemort is considered the primary suspect in the murder of Albus Dumbledore. You remain what we call ‘a person of interest’, but you’ll be released.”

All the air seemed to leave Harry’s lungs in an enormous whoosh, and he felt lightheaded. “I…I don’t have to go back?”

“No, Harry. There are a few restrictions. You can’t leave the UK for the time being, and your wand will be heavily monitored. There will be a number of spells that will be prohibited. You’ll be on a formal probation, and will be asked to check in with myself and Tonks every month. But other than that, you’re free, Harry.”

The tears that he’d just gotten under control spilled out again, and Harry placed his head on the cool boardroom table and sobbed. It took a few minutes to regain his composure, and during that time, Hestia came around the table. Moody skidded out of the way to give her room, and she wrapped her arms around Harry. “Okay, little one,” she said quietly. “It’s okay, darling. You’ll be fine, now”. 

Harry clung to her. “Thank you,” he said, through his tears. He looked up and saw Moody’s face. “Professor, thank you for everything. I owe you my life.”

“You know, Potter,” Moody said, gifting Harry with a rare smile. “I never actually was your Professor. You can call me Moody, or Alistair.”

Harry stood up to extend his hand to Moody. His head spun a little as he stood, and then the world went black and he crumpled to the ground.

When he next awoke, his senses were overpowered. It was too bright, the antiseptic smell of potions and cleaners assaulted his nose, and his every nerve ending ached. Harry squashed his eyes shut and struggled to remember what had happened before. Had someone cast Crucio on him? His most recent recollection was a Muggle-esque boardroom. He’d found out that Fudge had been unseated. He’d learned that the Wizengemot was in turmoil. And. He’d learned that he wasn’t going back to Azkaban, at least, not right away.

The relief washed over him so strongly that Harry couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips. “Harry?” The voice was familiar, gentle.

Harry wrenched his eyes open. Seated next to his bed was a hunched figure in threadbare robes. His eyes were familiar, though. “Professor Lupin?”

“How do you feel?”

“Kind of terrible. What happened?”

“I understand that you collapsed at the Barrister’s office. Kingsley and Tonks brought you here”

“Where’s here?”

“You’re in St. Mungo’s, Harry. You’re quite weak. This past month has taken a toll on you.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Harry remembered all that had happened since the last time he’d seen Remus. Umbridge. The Ministry. Sirius. Dumbledore. “Professor, why are you here?”

“What do you mean, Harry? You’re unwell. Of course I’d be here”

“But…”. Harry wasn’t sure how to articulate his thoughts. “don’t you hate me, sir?”

“Oh, Harry”. Remus reached out a thin, scarred hand and placed it on Harry’s arm. “No. No, of course I don’t hate you.”

Harry ducked his head. “You should.”

“Harry, you’re not responsible for what has happened.”

“Of course I am. It’s all my fault. I got Siri-” the name caught in his throat, and he stifled a sob before swallowing and continuing. “It was my fault that Sirius came to the Ministry that night. I was so stupid. And weak. I let him…”. The tears that had been threatening spilled down Harry’s cheeks. “Professor, I’m…I’m bad,” his words dissolved into childish howls, and Remus was nonplussed. Harry had always been the most stoic child he’d ever met. He’d watched him, as Dementors stalked him, relive his parents’ murder. He’d witnessed him accept all of the worst sort of things that life could bestow upon him. Sometimes Remus forgot that Harry was just sixteen, only a boy. Yet, the Harry that sat before him, head buried in his hands, looked more like a lonely toddler. 

Remus vowed to speak to the staff about getting Harry a mind-healer. Something told him that Harry had reached his breaking point. At this moment, however, the child that he’d always considered 'pack', sat sobbing his heart out. Being a werewolf had prevented Lupin from the careless displays of physical affection that others took for granted. His own parents had stopped hugging him after he’d been turned at six. He’d been overly careful at Hogwarts, terrified of getting too close to others, revealing his secret. He longed to comfort the boy, but instead sat frozen, fearful of presuming.

Harry’s tears continued unabated. Frantically, Remus looked around for anyone else to assist him. The room remained empty. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, the crying child and the helpless man. Remus continued to war with himself, attempting to will his arms around this child, a spitting image of two of only a handful of people who had ever shown him kindness. In the end, the struggle was too great, and, feeling less like a man than he ever had, Remus stood, and fled from the room.

It was to this scene, some time later, that Moody arrived. Harry was crying so hard that he’d been sick on himself. His eyes were swollen shut, having run out of tears much earlier. He’d cried himself hoarse, and the feeble noises he made were more that of a frightened animal than a boy. If Remus Lupin had been ill-equipped to deal with this level of raw emotion, Alistair Moody wasn’t much better. “Potter!” he barked, concern and anger on the boy’s behalf making his voice sound harsher than usual. “What’s going on?”

Harry stilled, his sobs ending abruptly with a little hiccup. He shrank into the bed, hands instinctively covering his head. Although he was shaking, he was completely silent. “Potter?” Moody shouted. His discomfort with the situation made things exponentially worse. Harry continued to tremble, while Moody barked his name. 

Fortunately, they were interrupted by another voice from the doorway. “What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” Tonks stood in the doorway. Her voice was mild, but she was glaring at Moody, her hair having transformed to a violent red.

“I don’t know,” Moody said in frustration. “I just found him like this.”

“And you decided to shout at him? Honestly, Moody, sometimes you have no sense.” Tonks continued speaking in a low voice. Unceremoniously shoving her mentor aside, Tonks perched on the side of Harry’s bed. “Wotcher, Harry. Alright?”

Harry didn’t respond. It didn’t sound as though he had heard anyone speaking to him. He remained utterly silent, and his only movement was to tighten his hands around his head. Tonks continued to murmur his name, hoping to break through the fugue state he seemed to have entered. When he seemed no closer to responding, she finally laid a gentle hand on his arm.

This got a response. With a cry of terror, Harry leapt from the bed and instantly disappeared beneath it. Tonk’s eyes widened in surprise. “Ali,” she said softly. “Get a Healer. Now”. Moody stumped from the room, and Tonks crouched on the floor beside the bed, peering underneath. Harry had huddled in the farthest corner under the bed, as far out of Tonks’ reach as possible. He was muttering to himself, and although she could barely hear him, she managed to catch a few words…’sorry’…’won’t be so wicked’. She blinked in confusion. Her work as an Auror had brought her into contact with traumatized people before, but Harry’s reaction was extreme. “What have they done to you?” She asked softly.

A Healer appeared at the door, a passel of Mediwitches in tow. The Healer, green robes flaring about her, cast a confused eye around the room. “Where’s Mister Potter?” She asked. 

Tonks gestured under the bed, quickly getting up and crossing the room to the Healer. “He’s been abused at some point. I’d stake my life on it. He’s having a breakdown.” 

The Healer’s eyes narrowed. She turned to the Mediwitches. “Get a Grade 3 calming potion, immediately” she ordered. “I’ll have to cast a sedative spell,” she muttered. “Auror, could you please clear the room?”

Tonks was reluctant to leave Harry, but recognized that he wasn’t going to calm without assistance, and he didn’t know her well enough for her to be helpful. She backed out of the room, casting a sad look at the bed. 

Once alone, the Healer crouched by the bed. “Harry,” she said softly, but with authority. “I know that you’re very frightened, and I want to make sure you know that you’re safe. You’re quite upset though, and I need to make sure that you don’t hurt yourself. I’m going to cast some medical restraints on you, but I promise that I will remove them as soon as you’ve calmed down. Then, I’ll be giving you a calming potion, and helping you get some rest. We’ll speak again after you’ve had a sleep. Do you understand?”

Harry didn’t respond. With a sigh, she cast a nonverbal spell that saw gentle restraints zoom from the end of her wand and secure Harry’s arms and legs. When he realized that he was tied, Harry’s panic grew. An enormous burst of panicked accidental magic erupted from him, shattering the wards around his room, and sending the Healer onto her backside. Alerted by the shredded wards, a number of additional healers entered the room, and cast a series of spells at the terrified boy, sending him into unconsciousness.

***

In the Manor by the sea, the Dark Lord presided over a meeting of his inner circle. He ran a thoughtful hand over Nagini’s back as he listened to Rabastan Lestrange describe the plan for a series of upcoming attacks on magical communities.

“Very well,” he said. “but I urge you not to forget. We wish to terrify, not kill. I don’t wish for a single drop of magical blood to be wasted. Should any unfortunate Muggles find their way into the crossfire…well…” His smile was terrifying. Lestrange shivered a little before nodding his understanding.

Just then, Lord Voldemort gasped. He rose to his feet, clutching his chest. “My Lord?” Rabastan asked uncertainly.

The Dark Lord’s face was, uncharacteristically, unguarded and panic-stricken. His breathing increased in pace, and he sunk to his knees. “Fetch Narcissa!” Rabastan shouted. Lucius raced from the room, not before casting a fearful glance in Lord Voldemort’s direction.

By the time Narcissa, entered, he was laying unconscious in the middle of the floor, surrounding by a number of nervous Death Eaters. Narcissa, having completed Healer studies after her graduation from Hogwart’s, administered a number of spells and potions, soon restored the Dark Lord to consciousness, and commanded that he be removed to his chambers. 

Blinking wearily, Voldemort’s gaze caught that of his most trusted supporter. “Lucius,” he croaked.

“My Lord, are you well?”

“I will be. Who attacked me?”

“I confess myself mystified, my Lord. There were no spells cast on you in the meeting room, and your system is free of any malicious potions,” Narcissa said. “Whatever malady you’re suffering from, it appears to be internal, rather than caused by an outside source.”

“All of you, go,” Voldemort commanded. None of his inner circle commented on how weak his voice sounded, but a few exchanged nervous glances. “Lucius, only you shall stay.”

When the room was empty, save the two of them, Voldemort said quietly. “I’ve never felt anything like that. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by terror.”

“I wonder. Could one of Dumbledore’s have used some sort of ritual?” Lucius asked quietly.

Voldemort thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. This wasn’t my own terror. It wasn’t like a spell that someone was casting on me. It felt rather like being plunged into someone else’s fear, like being tipped into a bath of icy water.”

“It’s concerning, My Lord. If someone were to cast this on you at the wrong moment…” Lucius didn’t need to elaborate. It was unthinkable. 

“Yes. It’s strange, though. I don’t believe that it was cast on me maliciously. It’s rather as though I stumbled into someone’s mind, as though accidentally”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t harness that. It would be useful to inflict on others”

The Dark Lord said no more, caught up in his own thoughts. He didn’t know whose emotions he’d stumbled into, but he strengthened his occlumency shields. Just in case.


	4. You can't go home again

September arrived, and with it, the question of Harry’s release from St. Mungo’s. Harry had flatly refused any conversations with Mind Healers. Irrespective of his obviously precarious mental health, his lifelong malnutrition and repeated exposure to Dementors had taken a toll on his physical state. In the weeks spent in the hospital, Harry had endured multiple bone regrowths, when it became evident that many previous fractures had been left to mend on their own. 

He remained quiet and withdrawn, but hadn’t had any further outbursts, save a number of nightmares that had left him pale and shaking, but unwilling to discuss them. Moody had returned most days, teaching Harry the theory behind a great deal of the magic Harry had learned, but never understood. One day, Harry had expressed a tentative interest in Ancient Runes, and, since it was the first time he’d shown enthusiasm for anything, they’d exhausted everything that Moody knew about Runes and warding. A younger, less-damaged Harry would have been fascinated. As it was, he managed to muster a polite willingness to study the books that Moody brought him, and occasionally ventured a question.

Tonks, too had been a frequent visitor. Most days, she and Harry exchanged few words, but she had managed to make him laugh once, by transfiguring her face into a startlingly good impression of a duck. She treasured the sound of Harry’s laughter, wondering what this boy would have been like if he’d been granted the chance to be carefree.

Remus had never returned. Harry did his best not to think about it, but the man’s absence served to reinforce all of the guilt he’d been carrying. He sighed, and his attention was caught by a figure entering the door. It was the big Auror, Kingsley, who he’d seen at the law office. The man smiled at him, moving gracefully, despite his size, to sit at the chair next to his bed.

“How are you feeling, Harry?”

“I’m alright,” he said softly.

“We’ve been discussing your progress this morning, and so I wanted to discuss what would happen next.”

Harry stilled. “So I’ll be going back, then?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, good, you’ve heard.” Kingsley’s voice was cheerful. “Yes, I daresay you’ll be thrilled to be back with your old pals, won’t you?”

Harry looked at him in distrust. He’d thought that Kingsley was a nice man, but he was mocking his return to Azkaban. Harry felt himself beginning to be angry. “You might as well kill me, sir,” he said with dignity. “I won’t return there.”

“You won’t? Harry, I’m sorry. I thought that you loved Hogwarts. If I’d known…well, no matter, where would you like to go?”

“Hogwarts?” Harry was so confused that he felt like weeping. He didn’t know why people kept teasing him and presenting him with new, upsetting information, and he was so tired.

“Of course. We thought that you’d enjoy returning to school.”

Harry considered this. “Do you mean it? I could really go back?” Back home, he meant.

“Well certainly. That’s what we thought you’d like.” Kingsley looked at him for a long moment before understanding dawned. “Oh, Harry. Did you think we were taking you back to Azkaban?”

Harry’s eyes darkened. “Well, you could, couldn’t you? At any moment, you might change your minds about me again.”

“But we explained, Harry. We told you that you were released. There isn’t enough evidence.”

“That’s not the same as being innocent,” Harry argued sadly. “And besides, the next Minister might decide I’m guilty again.”

“I’m sure they won’t.”

“Fudge did.” Harry said. “He liked me fine until I said that Voldemort was back, and then he tried to get me the Dementor’s Kiss. Who’s to say that the next Minister won’t be worse?”

He had a point, Kingsley admitted to himself. He’d been a loyal Auror, committed to supporting the Ministry and protecting those who needed it, since he’d left Hogwarts. Something made him touch Harry gently on the arm. “Harry” he said softly, looking into sad green eyes. “I know that you haven’t had enough people in your life to protect you, but I want you to believe me when I tell you that I’ll make sure you’re safe. You won’t go back to Azkaban. I won’t allow anyone to take you there. I promise.”

Kingsley knew that Harry wasn’t irrational in mistrusting the Ministry, and, if it came to it, protecting Harry might mean that he’d have to choose between his vocation and protecting Harry. But something primal and protective arose within him, and he knew that, no matter what, he’d make sure to protect this boy from harm, regardless of the consequences.

Harry eyed him speculatively, as though he wasn’t sure whether to believe that Kingsley would protect him, but he ventured a very tentative smile. “So,” Kingsley prodded. “how do you feel about returning to Hogwarts?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, after a while. “Hogwarts always felt like home, but so much is different now. People…” he shrugged his thin shoulders. “People don’t like me anymore. Are you sure I’m allowed back?”

“They can’t prevent you, Harry. You’re entitled to an education.”

Harry thought some more. “Do you think my stuff is still there? I never went back…you know, after.”

“I expect it is. I’ll ask Minerva.”

Harry mouthed ‘Minerva’, brow wrinkled for a moment before he realized. “Oh. Is Professor McGonagall the Headmistress now?”

“She is. I expect she’ll be happy to have her star seeker back.”

“Oh, no. I’m not allowed,” Harry said quickly. “I’m banned for life from flying.”

“Are you?” Kingsley was confused. “Why?”

“Professor Umbridge. We got into a fight with Draco, and she banned me. And George and Fred Weasley.”

Kingsley resolved to himself to look into how Delores Umbridge had been able to enact such a wide-reaching punishment, but just then, Harry said, “Do you think that Hagrid has been taking care of my owl?”

“I’ll check,” Kingsley promised. “Or, better yet, you can find out yourself. If you feel up to it, you can return tomorrow. The term has barely started.”

“I suppose I can try,” Harry said. He felt a small tendril of hope uncoil deep within his belly. Maybe things would go back to normal.

The next day, Kingsley and Tonks arrived at his bedside, both smiling widely. “It’s the big day, Harry!” Tonks cheered. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry found his lips curving into a small smile. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, only, I don’t have anything to wear. I can’t very well go in these, can I?” Harry replied, gesturing at his hospital robes.

Tonks grinned and pulled out his Hogwarts robes, and a familiar pair of jeans and t-shirt. “How about these?”

“Where did you get those?” Harry wondered.

Tonks’ grin was unrepentant. “Knicked them from the evidence locker” she said. “They’ll never miss ‘em”

They flooed into the Headmaster’s office. Headmistress, Harry corrected himself. Professor McGonagall was sitting behind the desk when they arrived. She looked up, but didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “Mister Potter” she said softly. “Welcome back”

“Thank you,” Harry said softly, his heart feeling like a stone. Professor McGonagall had always been fondly exasperated with him, but he’d never doubted that she cared about him, even last year, when she’d been so dismissive of his detentions with Umbridge. 

“You’ll return to your room in Gryffindor Tower. Here is your schedule.” She handed him a parchment, and looked back to the paperwork on her desk. It was a clear dismissal, and so Harry merely nodded and stepped towards the door.

Kingsley frowned. He knew that many member of the Order were grieving Dumbledore’s death, but he hadn’t expected this of Minerva. “Headmistress,” he said, his voice betraying his disappointment. “We need to discuss Harry’s safety while he’s attending Hogwarts.”

“He’ll be perfectly safe. If anything happens, he merely needs to inform a member of the staff.” Minerva’s voice was crisp.

“Nevertheless, I’d like for Tonks and I to stay here for a while. Just to make sure.”

“Out of the question,” she replied. “We’ve had enough disruption. The students need to maintain a routine. Your presence will be distracting to the students.”

Kingsley sighed. “Minerva.”

“Mister Shacklebolt?”

“Kingsley, it’s fine,” Harry said in low tones. He’d had enough special attention. “I’ll just keep my head down.”

“I’m just a patronus away” Kingsley promised. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

Harry nodded, casting a last, heartbroken look at his Head of House. Tonks patted his shoulder. “Keep your chin up, kiddo.”

With Kingsley and Tonks watching him uncertainly, Harry descended the stairs, and headed to Gryffindor tower, unsure of the reception that awaited him.

Fortunately, it was lunchtime, and so the tower was empty. He climbed the stairs to the room he had shared with Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus for the past five years. The familiar sights and smells made his throat prickle with tears. His bed was as he’d left it, and he was relieved to see his trunk at the foot. He opened it, and let out the breath he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding when he found his photo album. He flipped through the pages, watching his parents smiling at him, and then, he noticed something. All of the pictures of himself and Ron and Hermione had been removed. His sense of foreboding growing, he gathered the album closer and shut his curtains firmly. 

It was later, after dinner, when he heard voices climbing the stairs. Part of him wanted to remain hidden behind the curtains, but, summoning his courage, he stepped out into the middle of the bedroom. Ron and Seamus were in the doorway, laughing and playfully roughhousing. They stopped short when they saw Harry.

“Surprised to see you here,” Seamus’ voice was harsh. “You came to finish the rest of us off, then?”

Ron looked uncomfortable. “Give over, Seamus,” he said. His voice had deepened over the summer, Harry realized, and he was much taller. 

“Hi Ron,” Harry said.

“Um. Hi.” Ron met his eyes, but then quickly looked away.

“It’s good to see you,” Harry tried.

“Listen, Harry. I don’t want anyone to give you a hard time or anything, but…I just…it’s not the same anymore, is it?”

“I guess not,” Harry said softly.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m glad you’re back, it’s just that…things change, right?”

“Sure.” Harry wasn’t going to cry, not in front of anyone. He turned towards his trunk, seeking his invisibility cloak, but it wasn’t there. He didn’t know what had happened to it since they’d left it in Umbridge’s office. With a sigh, he closed the lid, and quickly left the bedroom, going down the stairs at a near-run.

He didn’t expect to run into Hermione, but he supposed it was better to get it all over with. “‘Lo Hermione” he said softly.

“H-Harry” she said, surprised to see him. She immediately looked as uncomfortable as Ron.

“Sorry, I’ll go,” he whispered. 

“I’m sorry Harry. I was just surprised to see you.”

“Oh. So you don’t hate me?” A tiny spark of hope alit in his chest, and he studied her face anxiously.

“N-no, Harry. I don’t hate you. It’s just…”. She bit her lip, wringing her hands a little. “I just don’t know if I feel safe around you anymore. I don’t blame you for anything, but, if you could k-kill Professor Dumbledore…” she trailed off, and the tiny spark of hope within Harry guttered. 

“I understand,” he whispered, before ducking around her and exiting the common room. He thought of going to the owlry, looking for Hedwig, but his fear of rejection by his familiar was too great. Instead, he found himself at the top of the Astronomy Tower. It was deserted, and he stood looking out over the grounds. His thoughts were turbulent. Ron and Hermione were right. He wasn’t safe to be around anymore. It was good that they’d moved on. It was the only way to make sure they weren’t hurt. He knew these things to be true, but at the same time, his heart ached so hard that he could barely breathe.

***

Lord Voldemort was confused. The raid this evening had gone perfectly. Each of his Death Eaters had performed exactly to plan, and he knew that there’d be a sizeable article in the Daily Prophet tomorrow. Scrimgeour was reacting exactly as he’d hoped. The new Minister had increased the size of the Auror squad, and, with the Dark Lord targeting magical communities every few nights, he was completely distracted from the running of the country. Every magical in Britain was consumed by fear of Lord Voldemort’s campaign, despite the fact that his raids seemed to avoid killing anyone Magical. Safety and Security were the current political watchwords, and Voldemort knew that the Wizengamot was getting desperate. They were ripe for picking, and it wouldn’t be long before Voldemort would be able to step in and wield control.

Despite the success of his political efforts, however, Lord Voldemort wasn’t feeling the usual glee associated with a plan running smoothly. Instead, an aching hollowness consumed him. He sat at his desk, a stack of parchment that required his attention unnoticed, staring out the window.

“My Lord?” Lucius had been standing at the doorway for some time. He wasn’t sure what was the matter with the Dark Lord, but years of experience had taught Malfoy that an unhappy Dark Lord was usually one prone to cursing his subjects, and Lucius aimed to subvert this behaviour before it began.

“What is it, Lucius?” Voldemort sighed.

“I can’t help but notice that you don’t seem pleased with our progress. Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know!” Voldemort’s voice was angry. “You’re experiencing unexpected emotions?” Lucius asked. He was taking a risk in probing, but Narcissa, as the Dark Lord’s primary Healer would be next in cursing range, and, Lucius aimed to attract attention away from her, if possible.

The Dark Lord didn’t respond, but the unexpected expression on his face told Lucius much of what he wanted to know. Undeterred by his Liege’s erratic mood swings, Lucius pressed on. “I’ve been wondering something, My Lord.”

“Yes?” As the Dark Lord was often short of patience, Lucius had expected to be hexed for presuming. Instead, he just seemed…lost.

“You’ve been sending the Potter boy false visions for some time. You don’t suppose it’s possible that whatever link exists between you both might work both ways?”

“You think that Potter is sending me these feelings?”

“I think it’s possible,” Lucius admitted. “I doubt that he’s strong enough to have done so consciously, but it does provide an explanation for feelings that aren’t typical.”

“Perhaps. I’ll need to study. What progress have we made on understanding how I can send him visions at all?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Lucius replied, tensing for a curse. When none came, he continued. “Up until this point, we’ve spent more energy in exploiting the link, trying to make Potter more unhinged than he already is.”

“What information do you have on that?”

“My contact at the Ministry says that he’s returned to Hogwarts. He continued to refuse any sort of Mind-Healing, and the staff that treated him report that he has nearly constant nightmares.”

“Back at Hogwarts,” Voldemort mused. “Interesting. If his mental state continues to deteriorate, we may not need to worry about killing him at all. Have Draconus and the other loyal children press him further into despair.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

“And send an elf with calming draught to me.”

“Consider it done.”

***

Harry knew that his return to Hogwarts would make him the centre of attention, again. He was prepared for the whispers and taunting. True, he hadn’t expected his two best friends to turn away from him, but most of what happened, he was accustomed to. He hadn’t, however, expected Hagrid to slam his door in Harry’s face. Learning that Hagrid had broken the spell that made Hedwig his familiar was also an unpleasant surprise. His first and second friends, respectively had rejected him, and Harry wasn’t prepared for it to have hurt as much as it did.

The Slytherins behaved as he’d figured they would. Cruel jeers, hexes and jinxes thrown his way, sabotage in Potions lessons…these were all par for the course, and little different from the way the snakes had always treated him.

The Ravenclaws, en masse, simply ignored him, which was just fine with Harry. The house of the Eagles had always been more interested in matters of study than petty gossip, even if the current gossip dealt with their classmate being a murderer. Harry was happy to avoid them just as they did him, although he did occasionally cast a glance at Luna, wondering what she thought of the situation.

The Hufflepuffs surprised Harry. He expected them to continue to treat him kindly, or, at least, ignore him. Instead, it seemed that their sense of loyalty had been enflamed by Harry’s actions, and their shouts and hexes were more inventive than the Slytherins.

After a few days of outright loathing by the majority of the school, Harry started to breathe a little easier. This was predictable. It was a shame, obviously, that the place he’d previously felt safe in was no longer a haven, but Harry had survived before. He wished for his cloak, not just to be able to safely move around the castle, but also because it represented a link to his father. Harry spent as much time as he could in the library. Madame Pince was suspicious at first, but, when it became obvious that Harry was simply reading and doing homework, she ignored him.

As Harry became more accustomed to his life at Hogwarts, he felt like a breath he’d been holding had let out. He still suffered from nightmares every night, and sometimes, when it had been several days since he’d last spoken to anyone, the loneliness threatened to take over, but he would go and stand in the Astronomy Tower until the crisp air made it seem like the tears that fell onto his cheeks were because of the wind.

It was nearing Hallowe’en, always a difficult time for Harry, when it happened. Draco and his gang had been quiet lately, and Harry had almost begun to hope that they’d lost interest. So, he felt almost safe as he roamed the halls one night, making sure to keep his footsteps silent and ducking into alcoves or classrooms when he heard anyone approach. He was on the third floor, near where Fluffy had been, that he saw it. Coming down the hall towards him, was a Dementor. Harry froze as the creature floated towards him, and as it descended on him, he sunk to his knees and managed to grapple for his wand. “Ex-expecto Patronum” he said, his voice shaky. When no silvery light emerged from his wand, Harry desperately sought a happy thought. Since they were rather sparse these days, he failed, and, terror overcoming him completely, amid the sounds of his parents’ dying screams, Harry collapsed. He awoke, some time later, laying on the dusty floor of the third floor corridor. His face was gritty from tear tracks, and he noted with shame that he’d wet himself in his terror. He placed a shaking hand to the back of his head, and noted an enormous goose egg, evidently gained when he fell to the hard stone floor. His glasses had fallen off, and he wasn’t sure where his wand was. With trembling fingers, he patted the ground around him, seeking either wand or glasses.

“Looking for this?” The unmistakeable drawl of Draco Malfoy made Harry gasp. Squinting, he saw blurry figures standing over him. “How pathetic, Potter. Can’t keep hold of his wand, can’t even withstand a bloody Boggart.”

Harry flushed. Of course. He’d forgotten about Boggarts. It hadn’t even been a real Dementor. In earlier years, Harry would have been angry, but as it was, he shrank lower onto the ground, and buried his head in his arms.

“Look at your betters when they’re speaking to you, you filthy Half-blood” Draco sneered. He grabbed one of Harry’s arms, and pulled it, hard. Then he started to laugh. “Oh Potter. You really are a mess. Did you really piss yourself, like a stupid pointless baby?”

Tears sprang into Harry’s eyes again. Humiliation was nothing new to him, but finding himself so low, at the hands of his worst childhood nemesis, hurt him terribly. “Why don’t we give him something to cry about, boys?” Draco hauled back his leg, and kicked Harry as hard as he could in the ribs. Cruel laughter echoed through the corridor, and Draco’s cronies closed in from all sides. The beating was merciless, and, weakened as he already was, before he knew it, he was descending into unconsciousness again.


	5. A Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - Trigger warning: Self-harm, suicide attempt.
> 
> ***

When Harry next awoke, it was to the antiseptic smells of the Hospital Wing. He tried to lay as still as possible, putting off the inevitable moment when someone realized he was awake. He realized that every distinct part of him simply _ached_. It was worse than a beating from Vernon. The twinging of his muscles confirmed that one of his aggressors had cast Cruciatus on him.

“Mister Potter,” a familiar voice spoke crisply in his ear.

“Mmm.” Harry wasn’t sure he had it in him to speak yet.

“Drink this.” Harry tried to coax his shaking hand to grasp the potions phial, but it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

“‘m sorry,” he whispered.

“Well, I’ll have to ask Professor Snape to get you more. Get some sleep.” Madame Pomphrey had never been _warm_ exactly, but, like McGonagall, she was usually much gentler.

Harry drifted into an uneasy doze, which quickly descended into nightmares. He was stalking down the street of a little village, neither looking to the left or to the right. His cloak billowed behind him, and his wand felt powerful and comforting in his hand. As he reached the town square, he stopped. Casting an appraising eye at the houses around, he raised a thin white hand, waved his wand and cast a spell. He felt his thin lips curve into a smile. “That one,” his high, thin voice said, and he pointed at a nearby cottage. At his side were two figures, each robed in dark garments, faces covered in skull-like masks. One of them laughed cruelly, and pointed their wand at the cottage. It instantly burst into flames. He could hear panicked cries coming from within, and felt a foreign thrill of grim satisfaction when, abruptly, the cries stopped.

He pointed again. “And that one.” Again, the dark cloaked figure cast a fire spell at another cottage, which burst into flames and was engulfed almost immediately. This time, however, a woman holding a baby staggered out of the door, face coated in soot. She was sobbing, and managed to cry, “Please, someone, help me!”

He stalked over to the disgusting creature, now shrinking away on the ground. He reached out, and plucked the baby from her arms. It was screaming, obviously in terror. The thin lips smiled again, and softly, the voice almost loving, he whispered “_Avada Kadava_”. Life left the baby’s eyes. He threw the corpse to the ground, and turned to the figure beside him. “Do what you wish with the woman, then kill her. Burn all of the rest of the houses, save that one.” He pointed to the single house where he’d detected a magical signature, then, satisfied that his loyal Death Eaters would obey his instructions, disapparated.

Harry’s own frantic screams woke him up. His throat burned, as though he’d been screaming for some time. His scar was aflame. It had been the worst dream he’d ever had. With a sinking heart, he understood that it hadn’t been a dream, but a shared vision. Equal measures of horror and fury rose within him, pressure building without him realizing. His breath came in painful gasps, and he gouged his own face with his nails, neither noticing the activity, nor the pain. The pressure rose and built, until magic positively _leaked_ from him. It manifested itself in a blinding blast of light. Harry again knew only darkness.

Lord Voldemort had barely cleared the wards of the Manor when the piercing pain in his head sent him to his knees. His vision greyed and, unnoticed by him, a thin trickle of blood escaped his nose. One of his house elves, summoned by the crack of apparation, took one look at him, squeaked in alarm, and instantly took him to his bedchambers. With bloodshot, unseeing eyes blinking rapidly, Voldemort opened his mouth to say something, only to collapse into oblivion.

“Mister Potter.” Harry heard the voice from very far away, and, bemused, wondered why an invisible someone was speaking his name. “Potter.”

“Go ‘way,” he muttered. His head hurt, and the strange voice in the dark was making it worse.

“Potter, I won’t hesitate to hex you.”

“Okay,” Harry sighed. Sharp, bony fingers grasped his shoulders and shook him. Harry went limp. “Sorry Uncle Vernon. I’ll be good.”

“_What?_ Merlin Potter, would you _open your eyes_?”

Confused, Harry forced his eyes open and stared into the dark eyes of his Potions Professor. He stared at him for a long minute, trying to remember what he’d done to get in trouble, and finally managed to say, “Why?”

“Drink this.” A potion was placed to his lips, and too tired and too sore to protest, Harry swallowed the contents. “Another.” This too was obediently swallowed. The agony ebbed suddenly, and Harry had the whimsical impression of his pain as a volume knob being suddenly wrenched lower.

Snape sat in the chair beside Harry’s bedside and regarded him for a very long moment. Harry scrutinized for any emotion behind the gaze, but gave up. Snape had been practicing the art of the Slytherin mask for longer than Harry had been alive, and his expression surrendered nothing to Harry.

“I would like,” Snape said finally, “to ask you what exactly transpired this evening.”

“Wouldn’t you know that better than me?” Harry asked, without thinking, before hastily adding “sir” to the tail end of the sentence. 

“One would think. However, I do confess myself at a loss to explain why your little outburst destroyed the wall of a castle that has been standing for centuries.”

“My what?” Harry was bewildered. 

“Do you not wonder why I, of all people, sit vigil beside your bedside?”

“I hadn’t,” Harry confessed. “Although, I don’t have too many vigil-keepers these days.” The words sounded so sad and lonely, that a different man would have been touched. Snape, on the other hand, sneered.

“I am the only person who was willing to do so.” Snape agreed, his voice frosty. “The others who may have had this task befall them confessed themselves too frightened to be near you.”

The pinched little face that peered up at Snape from the pillow seemed to droop. “Oh,” he said softly. “I reckon that makes sense.”

“Indeed. When your magical temper tantrum smashed every single item of glass in the Hospital Wing, and blew out a sizeable portion of the castle wall, Madame Pomphrey and Professor McGonagall both deemed you far too dangerous to treat. Had I not intervened, they would have left you to your magical exhaustion, rendering you a squib.”

Harry considered this for some time, before he met Snape’s eyes again. “Why did you?” He finally asked. “Intervene?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Snape bit out. “A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, Potter”

“It’s just that…I can’t work out why you’d care if I were a squib.” Harry’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then he finally said, “Oh, I understand. You’ve saved me so that I can be sent to be killed by Voldemort at the right time. Otherwise it would be a waste. Did the prophecy say anything about whether I needed to have magic in order to be killed properly?”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Snape said angrily. “I have no time for your melodramatics. Tell me what led up to your outburst.”

Harry sat thoughtfully for a moment, trying to remember. “I had a dream, sir.”

“A dream? Or a vision?” The Professor snapped.

“Um…dream, no, vision?” Panic filled the boy’s wide eyes, and Severus saw the moment where confusion turned into memory and fear turned into terror.

“Potter!” He said harshly. “Stop. Regain control of your breathing!”

“I-I’m trying,” Harry gasped, but he began to tremble. A stinging hex had much the same effect as a slap. With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes cleared a little and he simply looked lost, not panicked. “Sorry, sir,” he intoned dully.

“What did you witness?”

“A village. I was angry, but happy. The Death Eaters burned down all the houses. There was a woman, and a baby. I…I-” he broke off with a despairing sob. “I killed the baby,” he wept. Raising tear-filled eyes, he started to say something, only to close his mouth again with a sigh.

“What were you going to say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. 

Snape stared at the boy he’d vowed to protect. When Harry had stepped into the Great Hall for the first time, eyes bright with wonder, Severus had seen James Potter, and all of the hatred he’d ever felt for that man was instantly transferred to this abomination with Lily’s eyes. Convinced of the child’s hereditary arrogance, he’d sought it out in every word that escaped Harry’s mouth. When he laughed, Snape saw derision and cruelty. When he’d been frightened, or hurt, Severus had been unable to forget the foolhardiness that had led the child into the situation in the first place. Severus had been seeking a monster, and he easily found one.

How ironic that, when the child had actually done something monstrous, in killing the Headmaster who led the side of the Light, that Snape had gained enough clarity to look further. What he’d seen through clearer eyes dismayed him. Snape vividly recalled the moment when he himself had been at his most defeated. When, after begging the Dark Lord to spare Lily, the woman had sacrificed herself for the life of the child in the bed before him. He recalled with lucid detail the way he’d arrived at Godric’s Hollow, held the dead body of the only woman he’d ever loved. How his sobs had mingled with the terrified, screaming child’s. When, lying prostate on the floor in Dumbledore’s office, Severus had agreed to pledge his life, his safety, his sanity, to ensure the protection of that selfsame child. Snape knew what it was like to lose all hope, and he acknowledged that Harry was truly broken. 

“Tell me, Harry. What were you going to say?” Severus’ voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and that seemed to undo Harry even further.

“Stop, stop,” he begged. “Please, just treat me like you always did. I can’t bear it if you’re kind to me. I’m so confused. I need you to be the same, because I don’t know what’s real anymore.” His eyes grew frantic. “Is this another vision? Are you going to be nice to me, and then I have to kill you too?”

Severus was speechless, uncertain what to say to this wreck of a young man. Guilt shuddered through the Potions Master. He’d been another instrument of Harry’s undoing. Severus had never possessed an easy way of interacting with others. In a situation where emotions ran this high, he was completely out of his depth. He helplessly blinked at Harry.

“Okay,” Harry muttered to himself with relief. “Okay, it’s okay, I know this one. I’ve seen this look. Soon you’ll realize that I’m bad, like Remus did, and you’ll go away and leave me all alone. I’ve had this one before. I can do this.”

Remus had told the child he was bad? Severus was further confused. “Harry, you’re not… you aren’t bad,” he tried.

This made everything much worse, very quickly. Harry simply _howled_. “No, no, no! Stop confusing me!” He held his head as he screamed, as though the incongruous thoughts were breaking it apart. With his recent change of heart, Severus now found it very troubling to heap further cruelty on this broken child. “Potter,” he tried weakly.

“I’m bad, do you hear me?” Harry whimpered. Suddenly, his voice turned savage. “Say it. Say I’m bad.”

For the first time in ages, Severus felt a shiver of fear ripple through him. Harry had always been extremely magically strong. Even with the exhaustion of having blown the Hospital wing to pieces, a bout of accidental magic might do further damage. Feeling more like a coward than he ever had, Severus whispered “You’re bad”

Harry’s voice was a little wild as he whispered “You have to _mean_ it.”

Severus could take no more. Head low, he stood, and left the room quickly, leaving Harry to his thoughts. When he reached his dungeon quarters, he spelled the door closed, cast the strongest privacy spell he knew, and wept.

It was some time before the Hospital Wing grew quiet. Harry could hear Madame Pomphrey bustling about, behind the spelled privacy curtain. Eventually though, the hours passed, and the torches darkened, and the creeping silence covered the room. Even after he’d realized what he must do, and after it became clear that everyone was asleep, Harry didn’t leave his bed. His thumb had migrated into his mouth again, and, for the first time in a long time, Harry wasn’t ashamed about the babyish habit. Nobody was here to slap it out of his mouth, or mock him for seeking comfort. Despite knowing that it was a strange thing for a sixteen year old to do, Harry simply allowed his bruised mind to take the small comfort while he could. His other hand absently made its way to a lock of hair, which he curled around his finger. He stayed this way for a while, but the actions didn’t provide their usual balm to his tender feelings.

With a resigned sigh, he shakily got to his feet, took his wand from the bedside table, and stood. He was garbed in hospital gowns again, and although he considered trying to find his school robes, the impulse quickly passed. Belonging to his chosen house no longer held the comfort it once did, and wearing the red and gold no longer provided any sense of pride. He tiptoed through the hospital ward, pausing for a moment to see if his actions prompted any movement. He knew from past experience that Madame Pomphrey usually cast a number of monitoring charms on her patients, but in the excitement of whatever had happened earlier, she’d either been too frightened, or too ambivalent about his care to bother. Convinced that he’d garner no further attention, he left the hospital wing and set off for the only place in Hogwarts he’d found any solace since his return.

The Astronomy Tower was silent, it being long past the time when any classes would have dismissed. As Harry stood looking out at the night sky, he saw an enormous winged horse creature, with leathery skin and wings, wheeling about over the lake. It looked as though it was having a marvellous time. There were a few owls out hunting, and with a little stab to his heart, he thought again of Hedwig, and their broken bond. As the night air grew chillier, Harry saw no reason to wait any longer. He made his way to his normal spot within the tower, where a crumbling bit of mortar had created a small recess. Thin fingers probed the opening until they retrieved their quarry. The slim potions knife was sharp and clean. He’d taken meticulous care of it, after all, as it was the single thing providing him any source of peace since he’d arrived back at Hogwarts. 

He began, as he always did, by allowing the cool edge of the knife to soothe the warm skin of his arm. The first cut was always shallow, and as the beads of blood appeared, some of the rough, brittle edges of his feelings were smoothed away. Harry made the next three cuts in quick succession, waiting for the peaceful detachment to overtake him. Another three cuts, and Harry began to feel a little anxious that his chosen method of self-care was failing him. He tried to slow his breathing, and made another three cuts, this time on his other arm. The last one was much deeper than the others, his desperation for relief and his rising panic making him grip the blade more firmly.

When his emotions remained, too overwhelming, too big, his anxiety spiked again. In previous sessions with his potions knife, Harry had been careful to only cut his upper arms, and, on one particularly difficult day, his thighs. When these methods failed him now, he poised his blade at the edge of his wrist. Harry remembered listening to a movie that his Aunt Petunia had watched once, featuring a character who died by slitting her wrists. He hadn’t seen how she’d done it, as he’d been locked in his cupboard at the time, but it had stuck with him, and in his earlier attempts to seek release via the potions knife, he’d been careful to avoid his wrists completely. He knew that his role as the one to defeat Voldemort was more important than any permanent desire to end his pain.

That had been before this evening, however, when his realization that the visions he saw would never stop, and his resulting outburst of magical energy had transformed everyone’s lingering ambivalence about him into actual fear. He’d never be allowed to stay at Hogwarts now, not after damaging it with uncontrollable violence. There was nobody left who would see him, who would keep him safe. Even Snape, the one person who had protected him, albeit grudgingly, a lot of the time, had admitted that he was bad. Harry was torn. On one hand, he wanted to protect the world from Voldemort, and fulfilling his destiny would guarantee that. But, in the meantime, until he was told it was time, his inner badness was starting to put people at risk. He didn’t know what to do, and there was nobody left to ask.

As his battered mind turned his options over and over, Harry couldn’t find a way to fulfill the prophecy without putting more people in danger. There was only one option that he could fathom. Resolved, he lovingly touched the stones of the Castle, the first place where he’d truly felt safe and loved. Its magic surged comfortingly through him, and Harry squared his shoulders, held his breath, and quickly drew the blade across both of his wrists.

It hurt, unbearably so, but Harry gritted his teeth and made sure that the cuts were deep enough to bleed profusely. Task completed, Harry sighed with relief, dropped the blade beside him, and leaned his head against the stone to await the inevitable.

Several hundred kilometres away, the Dark Lord Voldemort, already weakened by pain and suffering not his own, sat upright in his bed and gasped. It had been such a satisfying night at first. The destruction of the Muggle homes and the extermination of the Muggle filth had filled him with a deep gratification. The ensuing sense of horror, followed by a magical exhaustion so profound that he dropped to his knees, had been less so. He’d sunk into an uneasy rest, the potions Narcissa had administered doing little to restore his previous insouciance. 

Now, as he gasped in the darkness, he was filled with the certainty that something was utterly wrong. He managed to snap his fingers to summon a house elf, and bade it go fetch Narcissa and Lucius. Physically, he’d rallied while asleep, but now felt himself rapidly weakening. Mentally, he was filled with such despair that it clawed at his chest.

“My Lord?” Lucius was dressed, prepared for whatever his Master required of him. Narcissa wore a silk dressing gown, but was alert, assessing his countenance with an analytical shrewdness. 

“Go,” Voldemort gasped. “To Hogwarts. Fetch the boy. You must hurry.”

“It will be done,” Lucius assured, and sped from the room, leaving Narcissa and the Dark Lord alone. She had been deftly selecting potions from her case, and now, her hands cool, steadied his chin and assisted him to drink them. Recognizing the taste of a blood-replenishing blend and a restorative draught, he struggled to calm his erratic breathing. Within moments, his panic had lessened some, and he felt his strength begin to return.

“My Lord,” Narcissa placed a hand on his forehead to assess for fever. “Are you improving?”

“Yes.” He was curt. Despite his trust and regard for the Malfoy couple, he was furious at being humbled repeatedly in their presence. 

“Is it the Potter boy?” Her voice was mild, but taking the liberty to ask a question was a risky move, and it was only the Dark Lord’s reliance on her healing abilities that granted her the audacity to proceed. 

He thought for a moment. Given that he was nearly certain why the wretched whelp’s mercurial mood swings were affecting him so, it was, strictly speaking, medically relevant. In addition, if the fool child had behaved as he suspected, he’d need her assistance with healing the little liability. “I believe so. It appears as though there is a connection between us.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened nearly imperceptibly. She was a pureblood, a Black, and had been raised in the strictest traditions. Showing one’s reactions was unheard of, and her training had been extensive. “I see. Was this connection made intentionally?” She did not meet his eyes, keeping her head lowered respectfully. This question was riskier than any of the previous ones. Regardless of what Voldemort answered, he’d betray weakness. If he’d intentionally forged a connection that could weaken him so, his decision-making skills were in question. If the connection was forged accidentally, he appeared magically inept.

“I believe that the connection was fate-foretold,” he said stiffly. This was not actually possible, he knew. However, the Merlin-damned prophecy that had contributed to his…setback at Godric’s Hollow had been a foretelling, and his own actions had contributed to the connection that Voldemort was increasingly beginning to fear. So his words weren’t a true fallacy, merely a creative interpretation of the facts.

“I see. So what now?” Of course, she meant in the wider context. What would Voldemort do with the emblem of the Light, with whom he’d inadvertently forged a soul-connection? Voldemort didn’t know, and so he answered the question in letter, if not in spirit.

“We heal him.”

“Where would you have him placed?”

Voldemort didn’t meet her eyes as he said, “In this room.” 

“As you wish.” Narcissa rose and left the room, presumably to gather additional potions and treatments for a badly hurt child. Voldemort closed his eyes, and cursed, not for the first time, the cockroach of a child that continued to plauge his life.

Lucius had no choice but to use Severus’ floo. Any other method of entering the Castle would alert the Headmistress, which was, of course, impractical. So, as he stood in front of one of his oldest friends, who was now blinking tiredly at him, Lucius’ mind frantically catalogued the potential explanations for his arrival at three in the morning. Although he had no concrete proof, Lucius had questions about Severus’ true loyalties. _Well_, he decided, _this would provide conclusive evidence one way or the other_. He didn’t wish to duel Severus, knowing the other man’s strength to be comparable to his own, but needs must, and if Severus wished to end whatever game he was playing now, at least it would mean that Lucius’ curiosity would be satisfied.

“Severus. I apologize for the lateness of my arrival, but it is an emergency.”

“Draco?” Severus was wide-awake now, his hand on his wand, and he headed to the door.

“Not Draco,” Lucius answered, his own hand moving to rest on his own holstered weapon.

“What, then?” Severus’ eyes betrayed nothing.

“I have reason to believe that the Potter boy is in mortal peril.”

With a muttered curse, Severus resumed his path to the door. “Come,” he said curtly to Lucius. So, it seemed that they wouldn’t discuss this now, but Lucius wasn’t willing to let the matter lie for long.

After casting a disillusionment charm on himself, Lucius followed closely at Severus’ heels. As they approached the hospital ward, Severus lay a stilling hand on Lucius’ arm before casting a number of rune symbols with his wand, disabling the monitoring charms that would alert the Matron of their arrival. Lucius followed Severus to a hospital bed that showed signs of previous habitation, but was now empty. Severus checked the loo, before returning to the bed, his eyes wider than usual. “Fool boy” he cursed.

“Where could he be?” Lucius wondered. Severus didn’t answer, but was instead casting furious swathes in the air with his wand, murmuring in Latin. As he completed the incantation, a tiny stream of green light emitted from his wand, and streaked out the doorway. They followed the light to the top of the Astronomy Tower, Severus in the lead, Lucius not far behind. As they rounded the corner, a strangled sound emerged from Severus. He fell to his knees beside a heap of robes propped up in the corner.

Lucius had not seen the Potter boy since the night in the Ministry, and, although the moonlight cast only a weak beam, he was shocked to see how diminished the child was. He knew that the effects of the Wizarding prison were terribly debilitating, but Potter was unrecognizable from the slim, strong boy who had so defiantly faced him in the Department of Mysteries. 

Despite his public face, Lucius was a compassionate man, who was warm and loving with those he was close to, and he valued Magical blood above all else. To see this, even in an adversary, troubled him. The Potter boy had been held publicly responsible for Dumbledore’s death, and a great deal of the media reaction had been as a result of carefully crafted rumours and whispers from Lucius’ own mouth. And yet. This boy was Draco’s age, and to see that the Light had so carelessly abandoned the Chosen One to this fate was galling. As compassion flared in him, he felt the smallest twinge of shame, which he quickly trampled underfoot as he approached Severus’ side.

“Is he…?”

“No. He made the cuts laterally, not vertically. He’s lost a great deal of blood, and he’s very weak, but he lives.”

“I have orders.”

“I gathered that. Will you try to finish him off now? Why did you not simply wait?” Severus’ face revealed none of the pain that laced his voice. He had bound Potter’s wrists and was administering a blood replenishing potion. It would buy them time. Time enough, Lucius decided, to have a long overdue conversation.

“I have orders to bring him to Our Lord.”

“He’ll kill him.”

“Perhaps, but not for certain. I cannot speak of this, but there is a chance that circumstances have changed.”

“Tell me.” Severus looked up at him, and Lucius wondered what thoughts were going through his friend’s brilliant mind.

“I cannot. But you, Severus, can tell me where your loyalties truly lie.”

“This is not the time, Lucius. You have your orders, and if you’re truly bidden to bring Potter to him, it is imprudent to allow him to bleed out here where he lies.”

“He will last. This is important. Severus. Tell me, as my best friend, Godfather to my son, my brother in all but blood. To whom have you pledged your loyalty?”

“To him”

“Clarify” Lucius bit out, and placed his wand to Severus’ temple.

Severus sighed, as though resigned to his fate. “When the Dark Lord murdered Lily Potter in Godric’s Hollow that night, I swore on my life to protect her only son. If you must kill me, please do so quickly, and get him to safety”

Lucius considered this information. It was better than he’d feared. Severus hadn’t sworn loyalty to Dumbledore, or to the Light, but rather to the orphaned son of the only person he’d ever loved. Lucius did not know what the Dark Lord intended to do with the Potter boy, but, if his suspicions bore fruit, Lucius’ Lord and his best friend might not be at the cross purposes they assumed they were. Voldemort was likely to punish Severus soundly for his treachery, but that matter was out of Lucius’ hands. For now, his mission and Severus’ vow aligned, and he could use his assistance to rescue the boy.

“I won’t kill you, Severus, but I must insist that you confess your misdeeds to Our Lord. After, of course, we’ve returned Potter as ordered.”

“Very well.” Severus had never intended to survive the war, but had hoped to make his miserable existence count for something. He’d done what he could to protect Harry, while acting his dual role as a spy in an effort to ensure that he anticipated any threat that might befall the boy. Now that it was abundantly clear that the Light had turned on Harry, Severus would wait and see what the Dark Lord’s plans were. And if they tried to kill Harry, Severus would go down fighting.


	6. Chapter 6

They used the Floo in Severus’ quarters to travel to the Dark Lord’s Manor. Harry didn’t stir, and Severus, when he lifted him, had to stifle his alarm at how light the boy was. He was sixteen, for Merlin’s sake, but there was nothing to him. As they passed through the wards and entered the reception room, Lucius asked the waiting House Elf where the Dark Lord wished for Harry to be placed. “In Master’s room,” the elf squeaked. Lucius led Severus up the wide stairs and to his Master’s chambers, his quick mind noting the unusual location to deliver a prisoner.

To his surprise, the Dark Lord was sitting in an armchair by the fire, Narcissa serenely drinking tea opposite him. Voldemort looked up at him with mild impatience. “What took so long?”

“My apologies, My Lord. Gaining access to the Castle required some…diplomatic endeavours.”

“Place the boy in the bed,” Voldemort said. The moment Severus did so, Narcissa was by the bedside, casting diagnostic charms and lining up potions. She worked efficiently, and her normally stoic expression failed her. This boy had been brutalized. Narcissa was not outwardly demonstrative, save with her family, but she was intrinsically kind, and she was especially compassionate towards children. It broke her heart to witness Potter, the same age as her beloved Draco, so diminished.

“Severus,” The Dark Lord said. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”

“Forgive my instrusion, My Lord. I was unwilling to leave Potter.” 

“Why?” The snakelike voice was curious, not angry, but Severus’ entire frame was tense. He could attempt to lie, and say that leaving the child unattended would raise questions with the Order, but he instantly rejected the idea. If the Dark Lord didn’t see through the fallacy immediately, it wouldn’t take much to verify that the Order had largely washed their hands of Harry. Severus realized that, if Harry, or, to a lesser degree, Severus himself, were to have any chance of surviving, he’d need to lay their cards out for the Dark Lord to view. Severus fully believed that Harry wouldn’t survive the year, if left at Hogwarts, either by his own hand, or at that of one of his classmates. And if Harry were to appeal to the Dark Lord, then Severus would be by his side.

“My Lord, I have carried a secret with me for fifteen years. If it pleases you, I will confess my misdeeds, and allow you to cast judgement. I have no right to ask you anything, but I beg you…if, once I’ve done so, you decide to kill Harry, please try to spare him any additional pain.” Severus knelt at the feel of his only remaining Master, and awaited whatever happened next.

“Very well, Severus. You may confess.”

“My Lord, as you know, I loved the Muggleborn witch who bore the child now lying in front of us. When the Prophecy was revealed, and it became evident that Harry impeded your plans, I begged you to spare her. When Lily refused your offer, and protected her son, I made a vow to protect Harry with my very life. Although I have attempted to remain in your favour, I also used my position of influence with Dumbledore to attempt to keep him safe. In the process, I was not as loyal to you as I vowed to be when I accepted your Mark. I have no excuse, and yet, if I were offered the same choices again, I would make no changes.”

As Severus completed his oration, he awaited the bright green of the killing curse, and, when time passed, and no such thing came, grew increasingly uneasy. He was not a stupid man, however, so he kept his forehead on the hem of his Master’s gown, and tried to remain still as he awaited his fate.

Voldemort considered his little stray lamb, kneeling at the foot of his robes. In usual circumstances, a traitor would be dead before he’d finished confessing his misdeeds. However, Severus might still be useful. “And the boy, Severus. Does he know of your loyalty to him?”

“He does not, My Lord. In order to maintain my position as a spy, I have fostered animosity between Harry and myself. He does understand that I have intervened to protect him on more than one occasion. However…”

“Continue.”

“The boy has become increasingly fragile since his stay in Azkaban. I believe that the strain has taken a toll, as evidenced by his attempt to end his life tonight. Even if I were to confess my vow, I doubt that he would be able to believe me.”

“Is he truly so damaged?”

“I don’t know how he has managed to survive this long.”

After considering this additional information, Lord Voldemort made his decision. “Severus, I will not kill you tonight. If the boy is as vulnerable as you say, I believe that you might still be useful. However, your treachery must be punished. _Crucio_!” Voldemort held the spell for nearly two minutes, watching with satisfaction as the man writhed and gasped on the floor. In the bed, however, the sleeping Wizard began to moan and thrash as well, before his voice rose in an inhuman howl.

“My Lord!” Narcissa’s voice was sharp. “Until we learn more about the way that you and Mister Potter are linked, perhaps you could refrain from exhibiting such strong emotions? It’s making it rather difficult to ease his suffering.”

Many other Death Eaters would be instantly tortured for such insolence, but Narcissa enjoyed greater latitude than most, and Voldemort _had_ asked her to heal the boy. He didn’t gift her with an answer, but lowered his wand. Narcissa emitted an impatient ‘tsk’ and leaned closer to her charge. “Harry,” she said gently. “You are safe. You are being cared for. The pain will end.” The boy in the bed whimpered and curled into a ball, one hand covering his head, as though to protect it, and the thumb of his other hand stealing between his lips. “Severus,” Narcissa said sharply. “What do you know of Harry’s home life?”

Severus, who had until a moment before been writhing under the _Cruciatis_ took a few moments to collect himself before whispering, “I don’t know much. Dumbledore always said that he was safe there. But Harry never returned to his home for any holidays, save end-of-term, and he has always been thinner than I deemed healthy.”

“Muggles?” Narcissa spat the word angrily, gently peeling back Harry’s school robes, then gasping at the multitude of scars beneath.

“Yes. I don’t doubt that his Aunt changed any from when we were children. She was a vicious little creature then.”

Voldemort’s eyes blazed. _This_ was what he was fighting against. He hadn’t had any affection for Harry Potter in the past. Would have happily killed him without a second thought, save satisfaction and relief. But to hear that ignorant Muggles had been allowed to torture a magical child…it was unthinkable, and the Dark Lord’s rage knew no bounds. 

Harry awoke, feeling completely disoriented. His eyes were glued shut with previously shed tears, and his entire body ached. Lying very still, he took his normal physical inventory, trying to determine just how injured he was, and whether he’d need to flee the moment that someone knew he was awake. It was a habit he’d begun as a child, and it had served him well. Headache…well, that seemed to be fairly standard these days. Nerve damage…Voldemort had obviously cast Crucio on someone last night. Exhaustion and misery…other constant companions. Sharp pain in his wrists…that was new. With a sudden flash, Harry remembered everything from the previous night. His utter hopelessness, his desire for oblivion. Somehow, his attempt had failed. A tiny sob escaped him. He had wanted it all to end, and he’d blown his last chance. Now, who knew where he was, and what fresh abuse he’d need to face? He sniffed surreptitiously. It didn’t smell like the hospital wing, nor the Astronomy Tower. He was somewhere else. 

The suspense of not knowing finally overcame him, and, rubbing his eyes, he opened them. His gaze was immediately met by a pair of cool blue eyes. As Harry recognized the face of Narcissa Malfoy, he gasped, before resignation overtook him again, and he said, “Hullo Lady Malfoy. If you’re planning on killing me, please just go ahead and get it over with.”

“Good morning, Harry, how are you feeling?” Lady Malfoy seemed to ignore his request, and Harry sighed. Perhaps she liked to play with her food, or, more likely, she had been set to guard him until he could be alert enough for Voldemort himself to finish the job.

She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Harry said, “I’m alright, thanks”

She smiled. “I can’t imagine how that could be true, Harry. You were badly hurt when Lucius and Severus brought you here last night.”

So. The Potion’s Master had finally betrayed Harry, and delivered him to the Dark Lord. Ignoring the tiny sense of satisfaction that he’d been right about Professor Snape all along, Harry said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m alive.”

“That you are, and I intend for you to stay that way for quite a long time.”

Harry met her gaze, and Narcissa flinched at the disappointment in his eyes. “Oh,” he said finally. “He wants to torture me first?”

Truly, the Dark Lord hadn’t made clear what his plans for Harry were. Narcissa didn’t want to lie to him; he’d had enough lies and betrayal in his short life. She opted for a more diplomatic answer. “I do not know. But I will protect you with everything I am.”

“Please don’t.” The words were bleak.

“What do you mean?”

“Lady Malfoy, you have a family, a son. Please don’t risk their safety for me. I would ask you to kill me yourself, but I imagine that Voldemort would just turn around and punish you. Do your duty, but please don’t put yourself in danger. I couldn’t bear it.” Harry’s face was empty, the only spark of life a hint of concern that Narcissa would jeopardize her family for his sake. 

“Very well,” Narcissa said. “I won’t put my position with the Dark Lord at risk, but would you allow me to try to provide you with some comfort?”

“You’ve already done so much, Lady Malfoy. I’m sure you’re very busy.” Harry wouldn’t look at her. “Besides. I’m alright.”

It was so patently untrue that Narcissa nearly laughed. “Harry,” she said softly. “May I give you a hug?”

The furrow in his brow was so deep that Narcissa longed to kiss it, smooth it out with the comforting love-words that only a Mother can provide. Finally, he asked, in tones of great suspicion, “Why?”

“Because I don’t think that enough people have done so. If you feel that you’re alright, in your current state, you need a great deal more love than you’ve already received.”

That, it seemed, was the key to unlock such primal pain, that Harry simply put his head on his lap and sobbed. Tears springing to her own eyes, Narcissa sat on the bed next to the boy who had shown such bravery in his life and wrapped her arms around him. At first, he fought her ministrations. “No, please. No, I can’t bear it if you’re kind to me. Please, just leave me alone.” She shushed him, just like she’d shushed a much-younger Draco over matters more trivial. As instinct took over, and she gathered the far too thin boy into her arms, she began to rock him, which caused another storm of sobs. They sat, the woman and the motherless boy, while he cried as though the world had ended.

The Dark Lord had been heading to the Library when he heard it. Pitiful, childish sobs, as though someone’s heart was breaking. His first instinct was to continue to his afternoon of writing. Crying wasn’t rare at Voldemort’s home. Usually, however, it was as a result of some torture he’d ordered, and so his curiosity was provoked. He wasn’t terribly surprised to trace the sound to his recently-abandoned bedchambers. He’d been carrying a hollow emptiness in his chest for weeks now, courtesy of whatever strange link he had with Potter’s mind. This was different somehow. It was as though someone had opened a floodgate, and what emerged were the wretched sobs of a child who had abandoned all hope. 

He lingered outside the door, battling his first instinct, which was to bang the door open and order the brat to cease his snivelling. Voldemort still wasn’t certain how he planned to use the boy, but there was a correct foot to step off on, and that would not be it. Thus, Lucius discovered him, standing uncertainly outside his own bedroom door, peeking through the crack.

“My Lord?” Lucius asked, stifling a smile at the unexpectedly vulnerable state in which he found his Master.

“What is going on in there?” Voldemort asked, his tone a little huffy.

“I know not. Narcissa has been with him all morning. I suspect that she remains with him. Perhaps the strain has simply overwhelmed Potter. He is still just a boy.”

“What does he have to cry about?” Voldemort just barely suppressed the urge to mutter ‘I’ll give him something to cry about’, which was something that the Matron at the Orphanage used to say. Ironic, since it usually was uttered when one of the children already had something to cry about…like hunger, or the pain from a beating.

“My Lord, I don’t presume to know for sure. However, he has suffered a number of losses in his life.”

Voldemort scoffed at this. Lucius paused. Would Voldemort’s hair-trigger temper withstand any further insolence? Was Lucius willing to risk a curse defending the Boy-Who-Lived? Another hiccoughing sob made the decision for him. “With respect, My Lord, he did just endure time in Azkaban for a crime he did not commit, on the same night that his Godfather died.” Lucius wisely left unspoken the fact that both of those crimes had occurred at Voldemort’s command.

“He has so many feelings. He’s _exhausting_.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Make him stop”

“As you wish”. Lucius entered the room, and found his beloved wife cradling her newest foundling like a baby. Narcissa positively adored children, and her only dissatisfaction in life was the fact that she and Lucius had only successfully carried one baby to term. As such, he wasn’t surprised to find that Potter had stirred her maternal instinct. Lucius felt a sense of foreboding. The Dark Lord had yet to confess his plans for the child, and Lucius knew in his soul that Narcissa, through her actions, was swearing her fealty to Potter. He did not know what would happen if his Lord commanded him to assist in killing or hurting the boy. It would mean a choice between his marriage and his loyalty, possibly his life. Knowing, however, that it was impossible to unring this particular bell, he simply sat beside Narcissa, and placed a hand on the child’s arm.

“Hello Darling,” Narcissa said calmly. The crying boy in her arms stilled for a moment, before his eyes flew open. When he recognized Lucius, he emitted a whimper of terror.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry.”. Harry franticly leapt from Narcissa’s arms and looked wildly around the room for a means of egress. Unable to find one, as Lucius sat in the path to the door, he simply fell to the ground and curled in a ball, careful to use his hands to protect his head.

And just like that, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, feared Death Eater, Voldemort’s right hand, the most cunning of the House of Snakes, felt his heart break. Regardless of what the Dark Lord intended for Harry Potter, Lucius knew that he would join his wife in protecting this innocent, because obviously nobody ever had.

“Harry. Please be calm. I swear on my magic that I mean you no harm,” Lucius said soothingly. The shaking boy on the floor awaited any action that might belie this fact, and, when none came, raised a tear-puffed face to stare incomprehensibly at him.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to take liberties with Lady Malfoy.” Harry’s face was flushed, as though he were deeply embarrassed at having been caught accepting comfort.

“I merely came in to inquire after your health, lad. You and I haven’t always had the most congenial of relationships, but I felt quite worried after we brought you here last night.”

“I suppose I should thank you, Lord Malfoy, for attempting to save me.”

“You suppose?” Lucius’ lips quirked into a smile.

“Well, I appreciate the gesture, at least, I think I do. But since you’ve delivered me to the one who’s been trying to murder me since I was a baby, I would have preferred you let me finish the job myself. I can’t imagine that whatever I’m to face next will be any more peaceful.”

“Don’t worry about that for today,” Lucius urged. “Focus on getting well.”

“With respect, sir, it’s difficult to forget. I just wish that he’d get it over with. I don’t think I’m that lucky though. It’s rather disrespectful to Lady Malfoy, to allow her to heal me up, only for him to torture me to death.” Harry looked thoughtful. “Although, I suppose in your line of work, you might encounter that more than I’d expect.”

Narcissa looked a little shamefaced. In truth, the recently resurrected Dark Lord _had_ been rather more fond of torture than he once had. 

Harry opened his mouth to say something more, but his brilliant eyes fluttered, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious again. Narcissa sighed, and gathered him up again, placing him back into the bed. “It’s been like this all night” she muttered. “He rallies for a short time, then sinks back into nothing. It’s most vexing.”

“Magical exhaustion, do you suppose?”

“Not exactly. It’s as though something is leaching away his magic. Like a drain. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I wonder,” Lucius said slowly. He rose and made his way to the Dark Lord’s library, entering after his knock was answered. “My Lord? I wonder if you might indulge a theory I have about the Potter boy.”

Voldemort made an impatient noise. “This boy is more trouble than he’s worth. Perhaps I should simply feed him to Nagini and save us all the bother.”

“You could,” Lucius said slowly. “but I beg your accommodation with this one, small request.”

“And if I refuse?”

Lucius spread his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Of course, if that is my Lord’s wish.”

“But would Narcissa capitulate as graciously?”

Lucius smiled. “She is rather taken by the boy.”

“If I am to do this, you’ll leave me to my work for the rest of the day?”

“Of course, My Lord.”

Voldemort sighed, and stalked impatiently back to his bedchambers, where the boy lay sleeping again. “Well?” He asked bitingly.

“My Lord, I’ve been thinking a great deal about the unusual link that you have with one another. If, as we suspect, he has been feeding you his emotions, in addition to your ability to share visions with him…well, that’s not common at all. You’ve mentioned that you’re able to command Nagini wordlessly?”

“Yes. What does that have to do with…” Voldemort’s words trailed off as he looked at the boy sprawled on his sheets. “Lucius.”

“I’m not certain, My Lord. But it is curious”

Voldemort felt rising unease as he approached the bed. It was finally in the open, the suspicion that he’d been trying to ignore. It simply couldn’t be. With a hand that barely revealed his emotions, he placed a hand upon the boy’s scar. It was unmistakeable. A familiar pull of magic, completely akin to his. A symbiosis. Harry Potter was a Merlin-damned Horcrux. “This…is rather inconvenient”

Lucius’ grey eyes met Voldemort’s red ones. “And what now, my Lord?”

“I don’t know!” Voldemort exploded. He was tired, and overwhelmed by emotions that weren’t his own, and it made him want to curse everyone and everything in sight.

“I assume that you wish for him to regain his strength?” Narcissa cut in smoothly.

“I suppose I have to,” Voldemort said, in a tone that could only be called grumpy.

“My Lord, I believe that Harry’s health will improve greatly with an infusion of magic. He’s very weak and vulnerable at present. Your magic would automatically be compatible.”

“Little parasite,” Voldemort grumbled, but placed a thin hand on the boy’s chest and focused on allowing his magic to heal. It was uncomfortable, as Voldemort had cast little other than dark spells over the years since his resurrection. This act, of infusing light, healing magic into his mortal enemy, rankled. Immediately, however, Harry’s pale face began to regain some of its colour. As his magic reached out to Harry’s core, Voldemort was imbued with a sense of well-being. He felt tiny flickers of warm magic reaching out to his own. It was intoxicating. As Harry’s magic fluttered to mix with his, Voldemort began to pant slightly, and as he felt a familiar thickening at his waist, Voldemort snatched his hands away. “That’s enough,” he growled.

He stalked away from the bed and paused in front of the window, as though he had nothing more on his mind than to watch the day unfold in front of him. In truth, he was rather frantically trying to regain his composure. This…side effect…was not one that he had anticipated. It was perverse. For a single, mad moment, Voldemort considered simply killing the boy now, while he slept. True, it would damage his already vulnerable soul, but perhaps it was worth the sacrifice. However…Voldemort did the same mental inventory of his treasures that he’d done most mornings since regaining his corporeal form. The Diary: Destroyed by a combination of Lucius’ overzealousness and the blasted boy’s inept fumblings at heroism. The Ring: Intact, but missing. Hufflepuff’s cup: Safe, protected by his most verdantly loyal lieutenant. Ravenclaw’s diadem and Slytherin’s locket: Both destroyed by the demon Headmaster. Nagini…in truth, Voldemort was unsure whether Nagini was actually a horcrux or not. He had previously believed that creating a living Horcrux was impossible, as the ritual with Nagini had simply strengthened the familiar bond between them. And now Potter. It was too risky. There were too few remaining Horcruxes that he was certain of. Begrudgingly, Voldemort acknowledged the irrefutable truth. Potter would have to be protected.

“Thank you for your help, My Lord” Narcissa said graciously. “Shall I come fetch you when he needs another infusion of magic?”

The curse had nearly left his lips before he thought better of it. He lowered his wand, struggling to get his temper in check. Injuring the Malfoys was imprudent. He needed their loyalty, and he needed Narcissa’s healing ability to keep the boy safe. He took a slow, calming breath and glared at the figure in his bed. “Yes. Do so”. Without another word, he stalked from the bedchambers and locked himself in his study. It had been a strange, distressing morning, and Voldemort wanted nothing more than to immerse himself in his work, and ignore the whole thing.


	7. Verituserum

They settled into a sort of routine. Narcissa would fetch him every few hours, and Voldemort would dutifully follow her into his bedchambers, where the wretched boy lay. As he pressed his hand to the thin chest, his magic leapt eagerly, combining with the small surge of power he felt emanating from the shallowly expanding and contracting ribcage. Each time, as he was effused with a glowing warmth, his body would react in the same, distressingly familiar way, leaving him aching, confused and defensive. He’d hastily retire to his study, angrily willing his treacherous body to stop betraying him, and wait for the physical symptoms of the closeness to relent.

It wasn’t that Voldemort wasn’t a sexual being. He frequently used sex as an outlet for some of his more extreme emotions, and he was indiscriminate in his choice of partners. He never bedded the same witch or wizard twice, and never a member of his inner circle. His use of others was never more than a means to an end, and other than the physical release, it was simply another task to complete, not even a true source of pleasure…like scratching an itch. Which is why the sensations prompted by this connection of magic, an act so intimate it stripped Voldemort bare, were confusing, and overwhelming, and so…foolish, that it left him, over and over, helpless, panting, hard. Like each time before, Voldemort crushed the feelings under his boot, and firmly pushed the desire to _consume_ to the back of his mind.

It was one such night, when Voldemort arrived, unbidden, to his bedchambers to provide magic to the sleeping form, that he interrupted a dream. At first, Voldemort was confused by Harry’s moans. Was he aroused? What, or who, was he dreaming about? _Mine_, a primal voice that came deep from within Voldemort growled. Voldemort bade the voice to shut the fuck up, and continued to watch the writhing figure twist in the sheets. Soon, though, it became evident that there was nothing erotic about the dream. Sweat soaked the boy’s forehead, and his moans soon dissolved into whimpers. His eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids, his lashes a dark curtain on high cheekbones. “No, no, please, I’ll be good” Potter muttered, cringing into a ball. “No, stop. No, not the baby!” His cries rose in volume and pitch, and Voldemort felt the fear and horror deep in his chest. _What baby_, he wondered.

“_Avada Kadavra_” said Potter, still writhing, then “Do what you wish with the woman, then kill her. Burn all of the rest of the houses, save that one.” The words were familiar, but Voldemort couldn’t immediately place them. Whatever their origin, they were clearly distressing to the dreaming figure lying before him. He screamed, high, endlessly, his hands grasping and scratching at the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Voldemort hovered above him, uncertain how to make him stop, but knowing that the primal anguish and terror that he was feeling in his belly were nothing compared to what the boy was experiencing. The door banged open, and Voldemort jumped, suddenly embarrassed, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“My Lord,” Narcissa said smoothly, before slipping in between himself and the screaming boy. She gathered him to her, stroking his sweaty hair from his face, and whispering into his ear. It’s so obviously loving that Voldemort found himself grappling with an unexpected feeling of jealousy, before he pushed that aside as well.

“What’s happening?” He asked curtly.

“He dreams,” Narcissa answered. “Several times a night. He hasn’t gotten a single night of restful sleep since he arrived. He won’t talk about it when he’s fully aware, but once, while half-awake, he said that he hasn’t had a night uninterrupted by dreams since he was eleven.” She looked at him with an expression that Voldemort couldn’t exactly comprehend, but he still flushed and looked away. The censure in her voice was evident. He’d done this to the boy, and she was unhappy with him. Never mind. Dark Lords didn’t care for the approval of their subjects, simply their obedience.

“Make him shut up,” he said coldly, leaving the room and slamming the door as hard as he can.

Back in his study, he warded the door, and, when it became obvious that conjuring glass vases and destroying them with sweeping waves of his wand weren’t going to quell the emotions, he disapparated to a lonely cave, far away, where he took out his aggression on Inferi until the light of dawn streaked across the horizon.

Improvements happened, slowly, in Harry’s physical health. Soon, the daily infusion of magic was no longer required, and Voldemort kept his distance from his former bedchambers. Nagini, on the other hand, was fascinated by the new arrival. Along with the Malfoys, and Snape, who still was skulking around the Manor looking furtive, she seemed to adopt Potter as her own. Voldemort looked up from his stack of parchment one day to see her slithering towards him, as excited as a snake could look. “Master, there’s a hatchling here!” She said.

“I’m aware.”

“He smells familiar. He smells like you. Is he your hatchling?”

“Not exactly.” Nagini didn’t understand the true meaning of her Master’s treasures. She knew that they were to be guarded, but couldn’t fathom the definition of a soul. She spoke of Master’s ‘soul-houses’ with reverence, but she would have been equally protective of a ball of yarn that Voldemort had conjured.

“Shall I eat him?”

“No, Nagini. He is to be protected.”

“Very well. May I go to him?”

“If Narcissa allows it. He has been ill.”

“I will help,” she assured him, and set off to investigate this new curiosity. Voldemort knew that she wouldn’t care whether Narcissa permitted her visit or not, a twelve-foot snake wasn’t easily refused.

Some time later, Voldemort was again interrupted by Nagini’s arrival. “Master, he is a speaker!”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Someone has hurt him. You should have chosen a stronger home for your soul. He doesn’t look capable of protecting it.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“Why does he make face water so much?”

“He’s weak.”

“He is kind, though. Even though he was frightened of me, he did not wave his magic at me.”

“Hmm,” Voldemort had returned to his parchments.

“I like him. His magic smells like yours. Do not worry, Master. I will protect your soul house.”

“Do that,” Voldemort said, distracted by the most recent transcript of the Wizengamot proceedings. Scrimgeour wasn’t working out at all. Voldemort knew that he would need to intervene soon. He made a note to discuss the situation with Lucius. Scrimgeour wasn’t likely to be easy to persuade. It would need to be handled diplomatically.

“He is planning to leave us, Master.”

This statement captured Voldemort’s attention. “What?”

“He was making face water again. He said that he would leave this world.”

Nagini appeared to have more to say, but Voldemort was up and striding from the room before she had a chance to continue. With the snake equivalent of a shrug, she curled up in the warmth of Master’s chair, awaiting his return.

Severus Snape was not a patient man, nor was he one who enjoyed idleness. Since his confession of disloyalty to the Dark Lord, on the night that Harry had been brought to the Manor, he had been inhabiting the dwelling like a wraith, attempting to evade attention, and simply watching the proceedings. After the night in the Hogwart’s Hospital wing, when he’d so dreadfully botched up his conversation with Harry, he’d avoided the young man, his limited social skills making any attempts at reconciliation impossible. The Dark Lord was still furious with him, and so Severus had been spending a great deal of time in the Library, reading. As he was no longer privy to matters of Harry’s care nor the Dark Lord’s plans, for the first time in his adult life, he had no purpose, and the lack of direction was taking a toll.

As was his custom, he was pacing the hallway where Harry was kept, hoping to overhear an update on his charge’s health. As he heard footsteps approaching, he crept into an unused room, watching in silence as the Dark Lord stormed by. The door to Harry’s chambers flew open, and Voldemort stomped inside, clearly livid. Severus’ nerve endings tensed. He didn’t wish for a confrontation with an angry Dark Lord, but his desire to protect Harry outweighed this, and so he hovered outside the doorway, poised to act.

“Cease your infernal snivelling, boy. I wish to speak to you”. The Dark Lord’s voice was thin and cold, his rising temper evident in every syllable.

“I don’t care,” Harry’s voice was bleak, empty.

“I’ll make you care.”

“Go ahead. You can’t hurt me any more than you already have, and if you kill me, you’ll be doing the world a favour.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Harry Potter. I can hurt you a great deal more than I already have. Crucio!”

Through the crack in the open door, Severus could see Harry twitching where he lay, but he was surprised to see the Dark Lord himself stagger, and drop the spell almost immediately. Severus knew of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, knew of Albus’ suspicions that Harry was one as well. If he and the Dark Lord were linked, it only served to add additional evidence to the claim. Severus sighed. He wasn’t sure whether it had been folly to bring Harry within Voldemort’s clutches, but if Harry were a Horcrux, he knew that Voldemort would keep him alive. But what sort of life would he have? A prisoner of the Dark Lord? Again, Severus cursed the day, years ago, when he’d brought the prophecy to Voldemort. 

“Go ahead and do it again,” Harry gasped. “I don’t care.”

“What’s wrong with you, imbecile? Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“You can hurt me all you want, it’s what I deserve. And besides, one of these days, your temper will get the better of you, and you’ll kill me, and this will all be over.”

“Poor Harry Potter,” Voldemort mocked, his face twisting into an inhuman grimace of a smile. “Don’t you care about your friends? Don’t you care about your lame dog of a Headmaster and his goals?”

“I don’t have any friends. And I don’t owe Dumbledore anything, anymore. We’re square.”

Severus longed to question Harry’s changing loyalty to the Headmaster. Why would he say such a thing?

“You can’t be square with a man you’ve murdered, Potter,” Voldemort’s voice caressed Harry’s surname like silk. 

Harry shrugged. “Too late to do anything about it, then.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Voldemort asked again frustration leaking into his tone. “Once you faced me with bravery that exceeded your age. Where’s the brave Gryffindor now?”

“Dead,” Harry said flatly. “I don’t have anyone left to fight for.”

“What of yourself?”

Harry’s laugh was hollow and empty. “I never fought for myself, you idiot. What would have been the point of that?”

Voldemort fisted the front of Harry’s robes in frustration, pulling the boy closer until their faces were nearly touching. “You’re a fool, Potter. The only thing you have to fight for _is_ yourself. You put your faith in others, and look where that’s gotten you. Everyone that you cared about has abandoned you. Everything you do should be to further your own agenda.”

“You’re right,” Harry agreed suddenly. “You can’t rely on others. I guess the only difference between us is that you think that _you’re_ worth fighting for. Either way, we’re at a stalemate. For some reason, you want me to fight you, and I don’t give a fuck anymore. You don’t seem to want to kill me. If neither of us will bend, what more is there to say?”

“Indeed. Well, you won’t be killing yourself, Potter.”

“Oh yeah? Who do you think is going to stop me? You can’t watch me all the time. You can’t waste your Death Eaters guarding me constantly. Sooner or later, I’ll find something that will do the job”

“I want you to make an unbreakable vow that you won’t.”

Harry laughed again. “Why should I? What could you possibly have that I want?”

“Really? There’s nothing that you would have me do, or perhaps stop doing? Don’t forget, I know your thoughts, I see your dreams.”

The filthy look that Harry gave Voldemort at that nearly caused Severus to laugh out loud. Despite everything, there was still a tiny spark of the boy that Severus once knew. “I can’t think of anything,” he said stubbornly.

“Oh? And so if I were to swear on my magic that I wouldn’t harm another child, magical or otherwise, that wouldn’t entice you?”

Severus saw Harry’s body tense. Voldemort laughed. “Oh yes, Lord Voldemort sees everything. You were quite upset when I killed the Muggle vermin that night, weren’t you?”

Harry’s head dipped down to his chest. “You’re such a bastard,” he whispered. Voldemort laughed again. “Why do you even care, anyway?” Harry finally asked. “You’ve spent the past few years trying to kill me. I can’t imagine that this sudden change of heart has anything to do with my wellbeing. So what is it?”

_Well done, Harry_, Severus thought. 

“My reasons are my own,” Voldemort said stiffly.

“Well too bad. If you care this much, then you’re obviously trying to use me for something. I’m nobody’s pawn, Voldemort, not any longer. I don’t care if you tell me or not, but I won’t make a vow without full disclosure. Now go away, until you’re willing to be truthful with me.” Harry wrenched himself away, and turned his back on the Dark Lord.

Severus stood outside the room, so filled with pride in the boy that tears sprung to his eyes. His heart ached that Harry had so little reason to live, that he’d stand up to Lord Voldemort in this way, but even at his lowest, he possessed such a strength of spirit that he would risk torture and untold suffering rather than compromise himself. Lily would be so proud of her boy.

Voldemort stood watching the boy for a long time, weighing his options. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he called, “Severus?”

Snape stiffened, cursing inwardly. Of course his presence wouldn’t go undetected. “My Lord?”

“Fetch me some Verituserum.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” 

Harry turned back to face his nemesis. His brow was furrowed. “Why do you need Verituserum, if you can see my every thought?”

“Not for you, you dolt. You’ve just finished telling me that you won’t agree to a Vow without honesty. Would you believe anything I tell you if I don’t take the potion?”

“Probably not,” Harry agreed. “But how do I know that you can’t withstand the effects of Verituserum?”

“Honestly, boy, Severus certainly didn’t overstate your dismal potioning abilities. We’ll wait for him to return, and he can tell you himself. Then, when you’re satisfied, he can be our bonder.”

“I don’t really want to see him,” Harry said, a little mutinously. “He did turn me over to you, after all.”

“He saved your life, foolish child.”

“Yes, well, we’ve rather covered that. I don’t really want to be saved, do I?”

“One day, you and Severus will speak about this,” Voldemort warned. “You do not know everything.”

Harry shrugged, as Severus returned with a phial filled with clear liquid. The Potions Master was truly confused. Why would Voldemort show his hand like this? Knowing better than to question his Master, Severus unstoppered the phial and prepared to administer the potion.

When the three drops had landed safely on the slightly forked tongue, Severus stepped back, and gestured to Harry. “So, you’re sure he can’t fight off this potion? Sir?”

Severus shook his head. “This isn’t like the imperio, Harry. Nobody can withstand it. I swear on my magic.”

“Alright,” Harry said softly. “Why don’t you want to kill me anymore?” He asked Voldemort harshly.

“You need to be protected,” Voldemort said, a little dreamily. Severus noted the wistful look that crossed Harry’s face then, but the boy firmed up his expression and continued. 

“Why?”

“You house a portion of my soul.”

Harry reeled. “I…what?”

“You’re a Horcrux.”

When Voldemort didn’t seem inclined to continue, Harry cast a slightly desperate look at Snape, who said “It’s a Dark ritual that carves off a portion of someone’s soul, and places it in a vessel. My Lord has created a number of such vessels.”

“Oh my…ugh. I feel sick,” Harry said, and truly, he did look a bit green. “Gods, why would you do such a thing?”

“Immortality,” Voldemort said vaguely.

“But…but. If it makes you immortal, can I even be killed?”

“You can. I never intended to make a human Horcrux. You were…”

“An accident?” Harry said.

“Of sorts. It’s what forges the connection between us.”

“But, breaking off your soul? That’s ghastly! Is that why you’re so insane?”

Voldemort looked a little affronted by this, but Harry was far beyond caring. Voldemort continued, “Creating a Horcrux destabilizes the soul. Creating many creates a disassociation from one’s emotions.”

“So you’re truly an unfeeling bastard, then. You have no conscience whatsoever?” Harry was pacing now, running his hands through his hair. Voldemort shrugged. “And so now what,” Harry continued. “You have no sense of right and wrong, and you think that this somehow qualifies you to run the world? Surely even you can see that’s a terrible plan.”

Voldemort seemed to consider this. “I had not thought of it that way. However, emotions cloud one’s judgement. I can be truly impartial.”

“You call killing a baby, because she was non-magical, impartial? How can you be so obtuse?”

Voldemort looked a bit strained, trying to answer this, and Severus cut in. “Harry, trying to answer questions like that under Verituserum can cause insanity.”

“How would we know the difference?” Harry asked, a little wildly.

Severus couldn’t help but smile a little. “Nevertheless, please try to phrase only questions that can be answered simply.”

“How will you use me, once you have my vow?”

Voldemort shook his head. “Not use. Protect. Treasure.”

Again, that longing look crossed Harry’s face. “And what will be the fate of the world if you do succeed?”

“Full segregation between Muggles and Magicals. Protection for Muggleborns. Protection of our traditions.”

“Can you achieve that without killing all the Muggles?”

“If the statute of secrecy is strengthened.”

“Would you try to avoid killing the Muggles?”

“In time. Killing Muggles risks exposing our world.”

“So why have you been attacking them?”

“Politics. The Magical world needs to concede my supremacy.”

“So you’ll kill them for a while, then stop?”

“That is my plan.”

“I don’t understand!” Harry cast a despairing look at Snape. “Why did Dumbledore want to stop him so badly?”

Snape was about to answer, but Voldemort beat him to it. “He was threatened. He disagreed with my methods. He felt that we should expose our world to the Muggles. That only through cooperation could we forge a better society.”

“But that’s crazy! You just have to look at my Uncle Vernon to know that they’d kill us all if-” Harry broke off suddenly, and looked as though he were about to cry. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to be alone.”

Snape quickly administered the antidote. Voldemort, restored to himself, looked appraisingly at Harry. “I can’t leave you alone without your vow.”

“I need to think. I can’t…I can’t…I need…”. Harry’s upset was causing magic to swirl ominously around the room. 

Snape eyed Voldemort. “My Lord, if it pleases you, I will stay with Harry. I believe he needs some time.”

Voldemort glared at Snape threateningly. “I will allow this, Severus, so long as Nagini is here to watch _you_. If anything happens to him, you will _long_ for death.”

“I understand.”

Voldemort left, and Nagini arrived. Harry had curled himself into a tiny ball in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around his knees. He had placed his head onto his arms. Severus could see that he was trembling. “Harry?” 

“Don’t talk to me right now, Professor, please.” Harry begged.

“Very well.” Severus sat quietly watching the boy as he processed the new information.

To his surprise, Harry started speaking almost immediately. “I feel disgusting, tainted. No wonder everyone hates me, if I have a part of him living inside me.”

Severus made a noncommittal noise, vaguely intended to offer comfort. Harry didn’t seem to notice, as he continued, “And I don’t know if _that’s_ the worst part, or that I agree with the bastard who killed my parents, and made me this abomination.”

Severus looked at him sharply. “You agree with him?”

“I do,” Harry confessed. “Muggles are dangerous, sir. They instinctively fear us, and they hurt the things they fear. If the Statute of Secrecy were broken, it would be mere months before we were all imprisoned, or killed, or made slaves so that Muggles could harness our magic.”

Severus considered this. “So what now?”

“That’s the problem. If I agree to stay alive, I’m giving up on everything that my parents fought for. Dumbledore was raising me to be a sacrifice, I know that-”

Snape made a noise that resembled a cat who’d been closed in a screen door. “He _what?_”

“Sir, surely you understand this? I’m convinced that Dumbledore knew, or suspected about the Horcrux, and I’m reasonably certain that he knew why Voldemort and I were connected. There were likely a dozen members of the Order who could have taken me in when my parents died, but he put me with people who were most likely to make me pliable. If he could be the architect of my spirit’s destruction, what makes you think that he would hesitate to send me marching to my death?”

Severus’ eyes were darting wildly around the room as he ingested this information. Surely Albus couldn’t have been so calculating? But then, with stunning clarity, he recognized that his own absolution, at Albus’ feet, had doomed him to nearly twenty years of pain and suffering.

Harry was continuing, unheeding of the revelations that were removing a number of scales from Severus’ eyes. “And so I’m practically out of options. I’ve been raised to be a saviour, but the Light side would doom Magicals to death. If I die in some other way, Voldemort will continue to slaughter innocent children. If I take the vow, I’m selling out the only two people who have ever loved me.”

“Isn’t the choice obvious, then?” Severus asked suddenly. Harry looked at him, confused. “Harry, I have no doubt that your parents loved you, but you don’t have any further obligations to them. Whether or not you continue to fight for a cause that they believed in, they remain dead. You can do nothing for that.”

“I suppose,” Harry sighed. “Enough people have already died for me. I’ve already shamed my parents memory a dozen times over. You’re right, Professor.”

Severus longed to correct Harry’s misconception about having shamed his parents, but, having struggled with his own sense of self-loathing for years, realized that it was a futile effort. As Harry summoned Voldemort back, and took the oath, he wondered if Harry would ever overcome his demons.


	8. Your Precious Soul Container

If Lord Voldemort had expected anything from his request of Potter, it certainly wasn’t for him to begin screaming angrily at him.

“Are you a fucking nutter?” The boy’s face was bright red, and his eyes were flashing fire. Voldemort had wanted some of Potter’s spirit to make a return, but he hadn’t expected to be disrespected in this way. Rage, hot and familiar, washed over Voldemort, and to his utter shock, his hand rose, and backhanded that surly little mouth, like a muggle would. He felt his mouth drop open, and was further surprised, when Potter didn’t shrink away, but took a step closer, his face cold. A sneer twisted Potter’s mouth, “Forgot you possess a wand, Tom?” he said softly, dangerously.

Voldemort had to close his eyes, because, Horcrux or not, his desire to cast the killing curse on this wretched child nearly overwhelmed him. He was adrift in a sea of red fury, and for a panicky moment, he thought he may have lost himself. It had happened before, distressingly often, his temper getting the best of him, and a flash of green light. Unable to help himself, he opened his eyes, fully expecting to see a crumpled boy on the ground in front of him. Instead, he saw vibrant green eyes, glaring. He nearly sighed with relief before gaining control of his thoughts, and replacing whatever had been on his face with a cool, bland stare. “Do you really want to test my patience, Mister Potter?” he finally asked.

Harry didn’t respond, raking his hand through his hair, and turning away, stalking to the window. Voldemort waited him out, the minutes ticking by, each wizard growing more tense the longer the silence extended.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Voldemort broke, cursing himself as he did so. “Explain your reaction.”

It might be that his tone had returned to something resembling calmness, or it might simply have been that Potter couldn’t stand the lingering tension crackling through the air. He turned around and faced Voldemort, the expression on his face betraying the measured way he responded. “You want me to wear a portkey,” he finally said.

“I do.”

“A portkey that you’ve created.”

“Obviously, Potter.”

Harry made a noise then, that sounded half-sob, half-laugh. “Do you remember what happened the last time I touched a portkey?”

Voldemort didn’t. His blank stare made Harry erupt in another frustrated noise. “You don’t remember a Graveyard, my parent’s betrayer, my classmate being brutally murdered in front of my eyes?”

Oh. Voldemort _had_ forgotten that. Rather than admit anything of the sort, he simply replied, “Well, clearly that wouldn’t happen again, Potter”

“Forgive me if I struggle to take you at your word,” Potter said dryly.

“What do you require of me to agree to this?” Voldemort was tired. It had been a frustrating day, filled with overzealous Death Eaters wanting his attention. He had a mountain of paperwork ahead of him, and no patience for bowing to the whims of this overly sensitive boy.

“Why is this so important to you?” Potter asked, frustrated himself.

“Because I need to keep you safe!” Voldemort snapped without thinking. This also seemed to have an effect on Potter. His face seemed to crumple, utterly mystifying Voldemort. He mouthed the word ‘safe’, emitted another one of those laugh-sobs, and turned back to the window.

Voldemort was nearly about to storm from the room and address the matter at another time, when he heard Potter speaking softly. It didn’t sound like he was speaking to anyone but himself, but something in the tone caught Voldemort's attention. “All my life,” Potter said. “All I ever wanted was for someone to keep me safe. It’s utterly fucking ironic that the only person who’s ever expressed an interest in doing so is my worst enemy.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, and Voldemort turned to leave again, when the quiet little voice said, “but of course, it’s not really me that you’re keeping safe anyhow, is it?” Voldemort didn’t answer. It _wasn’t_ Potter. It was the soul. Whatever emotional crisis the brat was going through now didn’t impact him, he told himself, and stalked through the door.

Two days later, having just finished a highly diplomatic missive to the Lord of an influential Vampire clan, Voldemort heard the snick of his door opening. When he looked up, he saw Narcissa and Lucius, standing in the threshold. Smothering a groan, he curtly said, “Enter”.

Narcissa’s face looked thunderous, Lucius’ merely concerned. The Dark Lord regarded them both coldly. Finally, Narcissa opened her mouth and hissed, “What did you do to him?”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Lucius, sensing a storm brewing, spoke then, “My Lord, Harry seems rather upset.”

“Yes, and?” Voldemort said, when it became obvious that this was somehow his concern.

“We were wondering if anything happened, the last time you spoke to him?”

“Other than a colossal overreaction and a childish temper tantrum, not to my recollection,” Voldemort replied.

“Which one of you had the tantrum?” Narcissa asked, glaring at him. Lucius placed a calming hand on her arm, and the couple exchanged pointed looks at one another. Voldemort summoned another parchment and began his next letter. 

“No, Lucius, I don’t care,” Narcissa said angrily. “My Lord, what are you intentions towards Harry?”

“To keep him alive,” Voldemort replied. “Beyond that, I don’t have any intentions.”

“If that is the case, why do you continue to undermine the work that I have done in trying to heal him?”

“I did no such thing, and I will remind you who you are speaking with,” Voldemort said.

“My Lord,” Lucius interrupted smoothly. “Harry has had another setback since your last conversation. It has become difficult to encourage him to eat.”

“Perhaps you should remind him of his Vow,” Voldemort said, his voice deceptively mild.

“He’s not doing this intentionally,” Narcissa’s voice was sharp.

“He will eat. Or I will encourage him,” Voldemort said, his smile terrifying to behold.

“My Lord, again I implore you to help us avoid any setbacks. He cannot cope with any additional weight loss.” She stood then, her face full of everything that she dared not say, and left the room. The door shut more firmly than was strictly necessary.

Voldemort looked then, at Lucius. A true politician, he was accustomed to smoothing over ruffled feathers. “Please forgive her, My Lord,” he said gently. “She considers Harry her own child, and you know that her loyalty is unquestioned.”

“She might remember that her loyalty is to me,” Voldemort said, raising his wand.

“I would seek a boon, My Lord.”

“Truly? After this impertinence, you dare to ask me for favour?”

“I would not ask it if I did not believe it would serve you.”

“Tell me.”

“I would ask that I might speak freely, My Lord. I have observed something that I believe may harm your chances of success.”

“Very well, you may proceed.”

“The matter is delicate, My Lord, and I do not wish to offend.”

“Lucius, you know that I grant you more licence than any of my followers. I do not question your loyalty, and I do not punish you for your insights.”

“That was true, My Lord…once.”

“Oh?”

“Since your glorious return, I have noticed that there are…extremes in your personality that were not once present.”

“Elaborate, Lucius,” Voldemort felt his temper rising.

“In previous times, you invited the opinions of your inner circle. More recently, one must be very delicate, lest one offends My Lord. Where in past you were extremely analytical, your temper tends to…get the better of you recently.”

Voldemort considered this. He supposed that before his…setback, he was more inclined to invite partnership amongst his followers. “If this is so, Lucius, what might you recommend?”

“My Lord, I don’t presume to tell you what to do,” Lucius began, but Voldemort held up a hand to stop him, as he thought. _Was this what he wanted? A troupe of sycophants who were so frightened of advising him that it took endless machinations to get to the heart of the matter? How had things gotten to this point?_

“Continue, Lucius. I wish to hear your opinion.”

“My Lord, I have been thinking and researching about the link between yourself and Harry, and I have been considering the impact of the number of Horcruxes that you have made. You are, of course, an innovator, someone who has pushed the limits of magical theory. I wonder, though, if the segregation of your soul has had a destabilizing impact.”

Voldemort’s first instinct was fury, to punish this upstart for his presumption. He forced his anger to the side, however, and considered Lucius’ words. Lord Voldemort was not a trusting man, but Lucius had been loyal to him, and clever besides, ever since he’d been a young graduate from Hogwarts.

“If this is the case,” Voldemort replied. “what do you recommend?”

“My Lord, I believe that if you reabsorbed one of your Horcruxes, you would see an increase in your mental clarity. I believe it is worth the risk to your immortality.”

“I will consider this,” he replied. 

“Thank you, My Lord. And thank you for your tolerance of Narcissa’s insolence. She wouldn’t be the woman I love without her passion, and her protectiveness, but she oversteps her rightful limits.”

“Lucius, what is it about the boy? What does she, and yourself see in him?”

Lucius shrugged, an uncharacteristically casual gesture. “I cannot articulate it well, My Lord. He possesses a purity, a sweetness that is very engaging, but that’s not truly it. His gifts are something that need to be observed to understand. He’s…special. He has the ability to see the good in others. It makes him a joy to be around.” A faint pink tinge appeared around Lucius’ ears. Voldemort battled to keep his expression bland as he felt jealousy course through him. Harry didn’t seem to see the good in _him_. Not that Voldemort wanted him to. Dark Lords didn’t need adoration, after all. “I will leave you, My Lord, I know you are very busy, and I’d like to spend some time with Harry before he sleeps.”

Lucius stood and bowed, but paused as he reached the doorway. “I wonder, My Lord, if there is value in considering how Harry might aid your cause. He isn’t so far off in his political views from yours. And, he is a powerful leader. You might be surprised what he could do, if given the chance.”

Voldemort gave a scoffing noise. Lucius smiled. “It’s just a thought, of course. But, if you want your Horcrux to be truly safe, you might consider giving him a purpose in life. Harry doesn’t do well if he doesn’t have a cause to champion. It might as well be yours.”

Voldemort found himself considering Lucius’ words as he headed off the beautifully appointed guest room he’d been inhabiting since Potter had taken over his own bedroom. When he arrived, he found an agitated Nagini muttering to herself.

“What is it, my treasure?” he asked, the Parseltongue rippling from his mouth. 

“My Hatchling is not well,” she answered accusingly. “Each time he begins to improve, you open your mouth, and make him ill again.”

“Your hatchling?” Voldemort asked with some amusement.

“Well, you’re not taking care of him properly. Someone has to, and I don’t think that those yellow haired ones know what they’re doing.”

“You don’t need to take care of him. Defend him, certainly, but he’s perfectly safe here.”

“You don’t understand,” Nagini replied huffily. “He is a gift.”

“I don’t think you understand what that word means. Yes, he contains a portion of my soul, and is to be protected, but the boy himself has no value. Not like my other treasures.”

“It is you who doesn’t understand” Nagini retorted. “He is worth far more than a useless cup, or a shiny necklace.”

“The only reason he exists is because his filthy mother sacrificed herself for him.”

“You are jealous,” Nagini said baldly. “because his Mother loved him.”

“Be silent, Nagini!”

“If that’s not why you’re jealous, it’s something else. Is it because he is frightened of you, and hides his true nature when you are present? If you just treated him with kindness, he’d be as loving to you as he is to me.”

“I said to be silent!”

“You’re being stubborn. I’m disappointed in you, Tom,” Nagini hissed, leaving the room in a hurry.

Voldemort threw himself into an armchair, nearly molten with rage. Why did everyone protect this worthless, cast-off boy? Stupid Nagini. He refused to admit to himself that her words hurt him. Theirs wasn’t a conventional relationship, but Nagini’s strong maternal instincts caused her to adopt a nurturing role, and her lack of approval was unusual. Not that snakes knew much anyways. He brooded in front of the fire for some time, sleep forgotten completely. When it became clear that he wouldn’t find any peace, Voldemort stood in the doorway to his bedroom, watching the elfin boy in slumber, trying desperately to understand him.

The next morning found a newly resolved Voldemort stalking down the hall, in search of the whelp who was far more trouble than he was worth. Potter would eat. Potter would get better. And, most importantly, Potter would give him the respect he was due.

As he entered the bedroom, he was unprepared for the sight in front of him. Harry lay asleep on his bed, curled tightly around the protective form of Nagini. His thumb was firmly in his mouth, and his other hand was clutched tightly to the tip of Nagini’s tail. Suddenly, Voldemort remembered a much smaller Potter, in his cot, on a Hallowe’en night long ago. While Voldemort had argued with his Mother, the child had sobbed, starfish hands outstretched to his sole remaining parent. As Lily Potter’s lifeless form fell to the floor, the baby’s cries had stopped. He’d sat, those wide, damnable eyes that seemed too big for his face fixed firmly on Voldemort. He’d placed his thumb carefully in his mouth, and watched Voldemort with curiosity. Voldemort had raised his wand and pointed it at the babe, who blinked in surprise, before the green light had filled the gloom, and Voldemort had known no more.

Who was this curious child, who faced him without fear? Said child awoke then, his eyes blinking sleepily before landing on Voldemort, standing in the doorway. A little shamefaced, he snatched his thumb from his mouth, and glared at him, eyes hard. “I didn’t mean to take your snake away from you,” Potter said, a little defensively. “She insisted on being here.”

“You’re doing me a favour,” he replied, surprising himself. “I won’t let Nagini sleep in my bed, and she whines about it constantly.”

“It’s nice,” Potter said, with a fond little smile. “I always wanted a stuffed toy to sleep with. This one’s just a little chilly.” He gave Nagini a little pat. Remembering who he was speaking to, he stiffened a little, asking, “Did you need something?”

“Narcissa tells me you’re not eating.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Potter’s face lost all of its defiance. “I just…I’m not really used to so much food. And when I’m upset, I just can’t eat. It’s like my throat closes up.”

The censure that he’d received from Lucius, Narcissa and Nagini came back then, and, tired from the earlier confrontations, Voldemort didn’t have the energy to have another argument. “You’re upset because of our conversation the other day?” His voice wasn’t gentle, but he took pains to avoid being confrontational.

Potter sighed, clutching Nagini’s tail like a lifeline. “Yes, but no,” he sighed. “It’s not your fault. I understand that you have to protect your investment. I’m being stupid about the Portkey.”

Voldemort didn’t respond, curious if Potter would elaborate. Eventually, he did, by asking, “Do you think it’s possible for people to change?”

“No,” Voldemort answered at once.

“That’s too bad,” said Potter. “I’ll never stop hoping for something that won’t happen.” He seemed to forget that Voldemort was in the room, then, stroking Nagini’s scales and staring blankly ahead.

Voldemort regarded him a while longer, at a loss. Finally, in the absence of anything else to say, he asked, “Would you like some of my magic?”

“Huh?” Potter seemed startled that he was still there. “Um…”

“When you were weakened before, it helped you.”

“Oh. Uh, cheers. I don’t want to trouble you, though. I’m alright.” 

Voldemort stifled the irrational hurt that Harry’s refusal caused. “If you don’t take magic, you’ll need to eat something,” he said firmly, but not unkindly.

Potter shrugged. “I can try, I suppose. Even just to convince you that I’m not trying to damage your soul container.”

For some reason, Potter’s statement discomforted Voldemort. The boy was magically capable, and possessed a strong countenance. Voldemort couldn’t explain why it bothered him to see him consider himself so lowly. It was an affront to Voldemort himself, he reasoned. As if the great Lord Voldemort would stoop to such a pitiful adversary. If the reasoning didn’t ring exactly true, the Dark Lord spent no more time considering it.

Instead, he said, “What if we make a bargain, Harry Potter?”

Wary green eyes trained on his. “I’ve had enough Unbreakable Vows, thanks.”

“No, nothing so formal. For each bite you successfully swallow, you may ask me a question. You seem to be someone who dislikes being kept in the dark. Does that entice you?”

“I could ask anything I liked?”

“I may not choose to answer, but yes, you may ask what you wish.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Potter struggled to extricate himself from Nagini’s coiled form, but was too weak to sit up completely. With a sigh, Voldemort offered him an arm. Potter’s forehead wrinkled a little at the contact, but eventually accepted the assistance. When porridge had been summoned, and settled on his lap, he took a small bite. He cast a questioning gaze in Voldemort’s direction, and after a nod, said “So is it only about the power?”

“Elaborate,” Voldemort replied.

“Well, when you took the Vertiuserum, you told me some stuff about your…I dunno, platform, I suppose, which, for the record, I don’t disagree with.” Voldemort raised his eyebrows, and Harry gave an impatient hand wave, as though they would return to that later. “But there are lots of ways to strengthen the Statute of Secrecy. You were a good student, you could have left Hogwarts and joined the Ministry, but you didn’t. You chose to violently overthrow the system. Do you just get off on crushing things under your boot?”

Voldemort found himself smiling. It was a well-reasoned question, one that Lucius would have asked as a new recruit, even if he would have chosen different words to do so. “Really, Potter? You think that a poor, orphan, half-blood would have been able to change the Ministry from the inside out?”

Potter regarded him for a long time. He thought of Hermione, how her endless drive to prove herself made little difference to the Pureblood Slytherins. Despite her cleverness, they would never see her as an equal. If Hogwarts contained such prejudices, why would the Ministry be any different? 

Voldemort watched Potter thinking. His forehead was crinkled and his eyes were hard. Finally, he spoke. “I guess not. I suppose a system run by Purebloods wouldn’t be very welcoming. But how did you convince the Slytherins to follow you?”

Voldemort smiled. “Power. Fear. Intimidation. I gave them someone compelling to follow. After a time, they were able to tell themselves that I wasn’t a half-blood.”

“Are Slytherins really that stupid?” Potter asked, immediately, then looked a little frightened. To his surprise, Voldemort laughed.

“I think you’ll find that house-affiliation has little to do with it. Magicals, for all their abilities, are still a fairly simple people. They are attracted to power, and tend not to question things, so long as they feel safe.”

“All the more reason to keep us secluded from Muggles” Harry muttered, and Voldemort looked at him, surprised. At his openmouthed stare, Harry gave a hint of a little grin. “I don’t want them killed, but I want them to stay away from us. Muggles are dangerous.”

“Have another bite,” Voldemort said.

Harry grimaced at the bowl, but managed another small bite, swallowing it with difficulty. “Ugh, feels like a stone in my throat.” His green eyes met Voldemort’s. “Okay, another question.” He took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders, “What’s the end game, with me, I mean?”

Voldemort opened his mouth to answer, but Harry hurried to continue. “I mean, there was that prophecy, which, I guess now we’ll never know, and you’ve been trying to kill me forever, but now that I’m your Horcrux…I suppose I’m just to be your prisoner here forever?” At these last words, Potter seemed to wilt from within, his shoulders slumping, his eyes dulling. 

Voldemort bristled. “Have you found your treatment here to be unpleasant, Potter? Have you been mistreated, somehow?”

“No, of course not. Compared to Azkaban, it’s been wonderful.” Potter’s words were lifeless, though, as he seemed to grapple with a lifetime at Lord Voldemort’s side.

Voldemort was incapable of pity, but he was, at his nature, a curious man. “Where would you like to go, if I let you?” he asked suddenly. Potter stilled. He blinked a few times in rapid succession, considering.

Then he went limp. “There’s nowhere to go.” He said finally, his face a picture of desolation. “Nobody wants me”

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. “I want you, Harry Potter” he hissed in Parseltongue.

“Oh yes, I know,” Potter replied bitterly. “Your precious soul-container, to keep locked in a vault like Hufflepuff’s cup.”

Again, Voldemort was irrationally insulted by Harry’s words. To cover for his confusing emotions, he simply said, “Yes, unless you prove useful in some other way.” With that, he swept from the room, leaving a silent form staring into nothingness.


	9. Chapter 9

Lucius stood outside Lord Voldemort’s study, taking a few deep breaths before entering. His Lord had been unusually calm lately, but Lucius felt this meant that a storm was brewing on the horizon. It had happened before, a spate of near-reasonable behaviour, followed by a flurry of irrationality. Lord Voldemort’s recent paranoia was legendary, and often, one poor word choice was all it took to be crucioed, then cast out of favour for weeks on end. Lucius knew that he was due a punishment…it had all been going so well, and he and Narcissa had taken liberties in their protectiveness over Harry. Whatever this summons was, it was unlikely to involve tea and a chat. Lateness, however, wouldn’t be tolerated, whatever Lord Voldemort’s current mood, so Lucius smoothed his robes and hair, and gently knocked on the door.

“Come!” The snakelike voice betrayed nothing of Lord Voldemort’s current mood. Lucius opened the door and stepped inside. He bowed at the robes of his Lord, eyes firmly downcast. “Rise, Lucius.” When his Lieutenant was seated, Voldemort regarded him. “You took a risk, my faithful, in sharing your observations about me.”

“Perhaps, My Lord,” Lucius demurred. “If I overstepped, I am truly sorry. Please understand that I only seek to see your success against our enemies.”

“I believe that, Lucius. I have considered your words carefully. It has been…difficult, since my return, to know what is correct. My thought process is not as logical as it once was. I have come to agree with you, that this erratic thought pattern will not serve me well in achieving my goals.”

Relief flooded through Lucius. “Th-thank you, My Lord.”

“Thank _you_, Lucius. I am grateful for your loyalty, unwavering as always. Except…”. The strange slitted pupils locked his gaze. “I suspect that you are also loyal to another.”

“Harry?”

“Of course. He is a strange one. I confess myself intrigued.”

“I thought you might be, My Lord.”

“Could he be swayed to join our cause?”

“I know not, My Lord. He is…annoyingly Gryffindor.”

“Yes, true. But, he has never been treated with even basic kindness. I suspect that you and Narcissa have done much to make his affiliations sway”

“Yes, but…”

“What is it?”

“It is difficult, My Lord.”

Voldemort blew an impatient breath from his slitted nostrils. “Just speak, Lucius. I grow weary of the constant posturing”

“I could not manipulate him. He is so broken. Despite my desires to achieve success on your behalf, I could no more easily abuse his fragile trust than I could Draco’s.”

Voldemort’s lip formed an ironic moue. “I see.”

“However,” Lucius continued quickly, “I do believe that he could be an asset to your cause, and I think that your protection and…” Inexplicably, Lucius blushed and stammered a little, “y-your protection could be a compelling enough reason for him to reconsider his own position”

“Very well. Shall we begin?” Lord Voldemort summoned Hufflepuff’s cup, which Narcissa had retrieved from the Black family vaults that morning. “You realize, of course, that we must find the ring immediately.”

“I understand”

The ritual to absorb a Horcrux was rather less complicated than the one to create one. Lucius carefully drew the runes onto the stone, and prepared the chalice to accept his own blood. Voldemort carefully dropped seven drops of his own blood into the cup. Lucius spoke the incantation, cut into his arm with the ritual knife and allowed his blood to flow freely into the chalice, then added ground Runespore eggs into the mixture. As his chanting increased in volume and power, Lord Voldemort placed the cup into the centre of the rune circle, knelt and downed the contents of the chalice.

Pain ripped through Voldemort’s body as his soul was violently rent open, then, as the soul particle left the cup and rejoined its rightful body, Voldemort fell to the ground, convulsing. His body felt weak, afire, but for the first time in ages, his mind felt stronger, intact. Emotions flooded his synapses, and unbidden, tears sprung to his eyes. As he looked around the ceremony room, the colours seemed more vibrant. Lucius helped his Master to his feet. “My Lord,” he breathed. “You look wonderful”. Indeed, Voldemort’s physical body was changed also, his features more human, traces of Tom Riddle having returned along with the soul particle.

“I feel…different.” More human, was the implication.

“Shall I fetch Narcissa?”

“No, leave me. I wish to think about what to do now.”

“Very well, My Lord.”

Lucius bowed his way out the door. Left alone, Voldemort found his newly cleared mind returning to the conundrum that was Harry Potter. He was alone, and desperately lonely. He wanted to feel safe, even as he believed that he didn’t deserve such safety. He was fiercely loyal, if his earlier interactions with the Dark Lord were to be believed. Perhaps Lucius was right. Perhaps he could attract Potter over to his faction. He still wasn’t sure why he cared whether the boy was happy or not, but, he assumed that his new, clearer mind would eventually supply the reason.

Lucius joined Voldemort and Narcissa at dinner that evening wearing a smug little smirk. “It’s been an interesting day at the Ministry, My Lord,” he said, taking a sip from his wine.

“Oh?”

“It seems that our new Minister is quite frantic to locate Harry Potter. He has missed his last two parole meetings, and the staff at Hogwarts is unable to account for his whereabouts. It’s a public relations nightmare. A young, unstable Wizard who is as powerful as Potter, unaccounted for…it has everyone quite worked up. There’s a young barrister, a Ms. Jones, who is becoming a nuisance, demanding that the Aurors locate him, speaking in the Wizengamot, granting interviews to the Prophet.”

“What is the Order saying?”

“Very little. In fact, the Order has splintered since Dumbledore’s death. Minerva McGonagall is now its leader, and she is tight-lipped about the situation, as you might imagine. Hogwarts' official position is that he became dangerous and unstable, caused significant damage to the school, and ran away. However, a few known members of the Order have been conspicuously silent. Moody and Shacklebolt have both been scouring the countryside, searching for Harry. Severus said that they, along with Remus Lupin have missed the last several meetings of the Order, along the Tonks girl, who is a disinherited cousin of Sirius Black.”

Voldemort allowed himself one, small grin. The Ministry was in chaos, unable to find their loose cannon of a saviour, and the Order was completely consumed by infighting. “The time is right, Lucius. Request that Minister Scrimgeour visit us here.”

“I shall owl him immediately, My Lord.”

The mood turned celebratory, and Lucius and Voldemort thoroughly enjoyed their meal. Narcissa, however, toyed with her food for a time, then rose. “Excuse me. I believe I will go spend some time with Harry.”

“Darling?” Lucius’ grey eyes met hers in concern.

She gave him a cold smile. “I understand the need for it, but don’t think that I will celebrate with you as you use that boy as a pawn. You’re no better than Dumbledore was.” She left the room swiftly, and, while Lucius was slightly less verbose in his celebration, Voldemort was annoyed. He hadn’t harmed the boy, and that was all that anyone could ask. It would be foolish not to take advantage of the situation, and he wasn't _using_ the boy.

Rufus Scrimgeour was, by nature, suspicious. It had served him well in his career as an Auror, and even more so since his appointment as Minister of Magic. As he approached the edges of the Malfoy wards, he swallowed a potion to assist in withstanding the Imperius curse, and a strengthening potion. He double-checked to ensure that his spare wand was within reach, and adjusted the protective armour he wore under his robes. Whatever Malfoy was planning, Scrimgeour was as ready as he could be. A bowing house-elf greeted him, and escorted him to a tastefully decorated drawing room. Scrimgeour refused tea, and sat, tense, awaiting Lord Malfoy’s arrival. He appeared within minutes. “Minister, thank you for visiting. I trust you had no problems finding us?”

“No, Lord Malfoy, all is well.”

“Excellent. And I can’t tempt you with a cup of tea? Something stronger?”

“No. I’d prefer to know why you’ve asked me here under cloak and dagger.”

Malfoy smiled silkily. “Nonsense, Minister, such paranoia doesn’t become the leader of our world. I simply wanted to chat. After all, I find myself to be in possession of information that will only benefit you.”

“Very well, Malfoy. What do you want in return for this information?”

“Very little. I wish for you to listen with an open mind, and I require that you swear not to disclose the information that I’m about to share with you, unless I agree. The information I have is, shall we say, somewhat sensitive, and I share it with you at great personal risk. I would require complete immunity from any sort of prosecution, were I to tell you.”

Scrimgeour bristled. “Malfoy, be reasonable. I can’t give you assurances like those!”

“Then I’m afraid I’ve brought you here for nothing. Have a good evening, Minister.” Lucius rose and gave Scrimgeour an expectant look. 

Scrimgeour’s mind ticked through the various possibilities, until finally he sighed. “Very well, Malfoy, I vow on my magic not to disclose this information without your permission. I promise to provide you immunity on the basis of this testimony, however, should I obtain information about any wrong-doing through other sources, I will not hesitate to act on it.”

Lucius hummed noncommittally. Truly, the Minister could use their discussion today to incriminate Lucius, and he certainly didn’t fancy a spell in Azkaban. But, no reward without a little risk, and, Lucius reasoned, he could always obliviate him if the discussion didn’t go his way. “I understand that you’ve lost track of a certain boy hero?”

“Malfoy,” Scrimgeour growled, “if you’ve hurt that boy in any way…”

Interesting, Lucius thought, the Minister is as protective of Harry as he himself was. “I assure you, Minister, Harry is quite safe. It seems that the Light wasn’t taking very good care of him. I rescued him, seconds away from death by his own hand.”

“You _what_?”

“It seems that Harry hasn’t had a very easy time at Hogwarts, and nobody’s bothered to check on him. If it weren’t for a concerned Professor, who assisted me in getting to him, you’d find yourselves one Saviour short.”

Scrimgeour sighed. “I had no idea. Minerva assured me that Harry was fine, quiet, staying out of trouble. I did find her coolness odd, but I thought she was simply grieving. I know she was close to Albus.”

“How fickle,” Lucius remarked. “As if Harry possessed enough ill will to kill his mentor in cold blood. It’s nice to see that the side of the Light hasn’t changed any, when it comes to loyalty.”

Scrimgeour shrugged awkwardly. “Officially, we never approved of Albus’ splinter group, but they were useful for a time.”

“Yes, well, it’s good to see that you’re a practical man, Minister. I hope that practicality extends to the information that I have to share with you.”

“There’s more?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have simply called you to tease you about losing your hero. Speaking of, though, what are you intentions towards Harry?”

“You sounds as if you care.” Scrimgeour’s eyes were lionlike. He regarded Lucius through his heavy lids, but behind them, Lucius had little doubt that he was alert, awaiting a weakness.

“Harry is a very influential young man, even given his current fall from grace. I take very good care of my tools,” Lucius answered demurely.

“Yes, the public is easily swayed,” Scrimgeour agreed. “As for my intentions towards Potter, that’s less simple. I think that he could be a useful force for good, if he were so inclined. I believe that if his reputation were rehabilitated, he could do a great deal to assuage any unrest that might be brewing. However,” Scrimgeour’s eyes turned flinty. “I refuse to use him like a pawn. That boy has been used too much. He deserves some kindness, and dignity, for one in his life.”

“Then we are in accord. I too think that Harry’s treatment has been abysmal. Do you know that Dumbledore allowed him to be abused by his relatives?”

“The Muggles?” Scrimgeour was horrified. “He reported in to us every six months that Harry was thriving in the Muggle world.”

“I feel that Dumbledore and I have different definitions of ‘thriving’, then. They kept him in a cupboard, starved him, beat him.”

“No!”

“I suppose it made him ripe for the picking. Dumbledore sent that great oaf of a giant to show him a wonderful new world, where he’d be safe, adored. All Harry had to do to gain approval was risk his life, over and over again. It was a small price to pay, when the child had already been taught that his life was worthless to begin with.”

“It’s a shame he’s dead,” Scrimgeour remarked mildly. “I’d quite like to discuss a few things with Albus Dumbledore.”

“Well, what’s done is done. It’s left to us to determine what happens next. Now,” Lucius continued, stretching his legs out and clasping his hands. “I believe that you have some suspicions about my affiliations in this current unrest.”

“More than suspicions.” Scrimgeour replied.

“Well, without proof…” Lucius smiled widely. “Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. I do indeed pledge my loyalty to the Dark Lord Voldemort. I believe that he is the best way forward to preserve our traditions, and ensure the safety of all Magicals.”

“All purebloods, you mean.”

“I mean exactly what I said. I, and Lord Voldemort, although I don’t presume to speak for him, believe that all Magical blood is sacred, and that it is exposure to the Muggles that put our continued ability to thrive in jeopardy. I think it would be beneficial for your to speak to My Lord, Minister, but before I would put his liberty at risk, I must know what you would do, if I were to arrange a meeting.”

“I don’t know,” confessed Scrimgeour after a long time. “The future of our society hangs in the balance. I’d like nothing more than to lock Voldemort in a cell next to Grindelwald, but history suggests that another Dark Lord would simply take his place.”

“Not to mention the instability that would result if the Wizarding elite continued to kill each other, as is happening now. It’s not an easy time to be Minister, is it?”

“You have no idea,” groaned Scrimgeour. “I think I’ll take that drink you offered, Malfoy. Something tells me that we have more to discuss.”

In the end, it took little for Lucius to get Scrimgeour to agree to a temporary amnesty. Voldemort would remain free, and he would be invited to discuss policy with the current Minister. Scrimgeour did insist that he would also need to speak with Harry, to ensure that the boy was safe and happy. “Allow me to discuss your proposal with My Lord.” Lucius said. “Expect my owl in the coming days.”

“It has been an interesting evening, Lucius. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Lucius’ smile was smug. “I hope we continue to live in interesting times, Minister.”

Voldemort was, surprisingly, easy to convince. He praised Lucius’ cunning in securing a Vow, and carefully drafted it up. The only hesitation came when Lucius shared Scrimgeour’s desire to meet with Harry. “No,” he said shortly. “Unacceptable. Too dangerous.”

“My Lord? I do not understand. Harry will remain within the protective wards of the Manor, and his Vow to you will govern his conduct.”

“I do not wish for him to see the boy.”

Lucius raised his hands helplessly. “Then, I’m afraid that Scrimgeour won’t agree to meet. It was one of his only conditions.”

Voldemort exhaled through his nose and glared at Lucius. “Very well, but you will never be so cavalier about my…asset ever again.” He stalked from the room, and Lucius stood, puzzled, wondering whether his Lord’s absorbed Horcrux had made any difference at all to his temper.

When the day of the meeting arrived, Lord Voldemort was restless, prowling from one room to the next, refusing to settle. Lucius tried in vain to orient his Lord to the treatise that they had painstakingly developed, but Voldemort would not be still. “My Lord,” Lucius tried again. “I think you should prepare Harry for his visitor. He does not cope well with being kept in the dark.”

“No!” Voldemort’s voice was harsh. “I don’t want him even speaking to Scrimgeour. The last thing I want to do is give him time to prepare.”

“You seem worried, My Lord”

“Of course I’m worried! Scrimgeour isn’t to be trusted!”

“The Vow-”

“Fuck the Vow, Lucius! What if he takes Potter away from me?” The last sentence was quiet, muttered under Voldemort’s breath, but instantly, Lucius understood.

“I don’t think he is unhappy here, My Lord.”

“I don’t care whether he’s happy,” Voldemort said sullenly, and Lucius felt that his tone suggested otherwise. “I care that he doesn’t betray me. You know what is at stake.”

“I do. It will be fine, I am certain.”

“I hope you are willing to stake your life on it, Lucius.”

“I will protect Harry with everything I have, everything I am. He will remain here.”

Voldemort stalked from the room in lieu of an answer. Lucius sighed. The sooner they got this meeting finished the better. Perhaps then, Voldemort’s insecurity would lessen.

Scrimgeour arrived, alone, as agreed, and submitted to a number of spells to ensure that he was indeed who he claimed to be, and under no enchantments that would interfere with the Vow. Once the Vow was completed and the strands of magic encircled their joined hands, Scrimgeour looked expectantly at Voldemort. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Indeed. However, Lucius feels that we can mutually benefit one another.”

“Perhaps. First, though, I’d like to speak with Harry.”

“Why?” Voldemort demanded. “He is safe. I won’t have you polluting his mind, turning him to your agenda.”

“Why?” Scrimgeour shot back. “Because he’s busy serving yours?”

“Gentlemen,” Lucius interceded. “We have all agreed to the terms of this meeting. If the Minister insists on speaking with Harry, let’s proceed.” He sent a house elf to fetch the boy, who arrived presently. 

“Lucius? Mimsy said that you wanted…” he trailed off as he saw who else was in the room. “No!” His whole body tensed and his eyes shot to the door. “You won’t take me again. I won’t go back! You’ll have to kill me!”

“Harry, no,” Lucius soothed. “You’re going nowhere. Minister Scrimgeour simply wishes to reassure himself as to your safety.”

Harry turned hate-filled eyes towards Scrimgeour. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Harry, please,” Scrimgeour began.

Harry interrupted, “No, I won’t. You’re going to trick me. If I say the wrong thing you’re going to put me back there. You’ll use me until you can’t think of anything else I’m useful for, and then you’re going to lock me with the Dementors.” His expression was panicked as he turned to Voldemort. “You said you’d keep me safe.”

Voldemort crossed the room quickly, his expression dark. “And I will. Come sit by me.” To Voldemort’s surprise, Harry clasped his hand and moved close. The Dark Lord looked down at the small, warm hand in his and was confronted with a flood of unexpected sensation. As they sat next to one another, Harry huddled close, still eyeing Scrimgeour with mistrust.

Voldemort sent a wave of magic through their clasped hands, and felt Harry relax a little. “Can you call Nagini?” He whispered into Voldemort’s ear. Voldemort nodded, and soon Nagini’s comforting bulk was coiled around Harry’s legs. Another surge of protectiveness overwhelmed the Dark Lord.

“So, Minister. What is so important that you needed to frighten Harry?” It was the first time that Voldemort had used Potter’s given name aloud, but he felt it important to emphasize his claim. The feeling of Harry’s name spoken by his tongue was exquisite, but this revelation was discarded for Voldemort to ponder later.

“I had no intention of frightening Mister Potter, and I’m sorry to have done so. Harry, what would convince you that I have no intention of seeing you back in Azkeban?”

Harry looked at Lucius, then Voldemort, silently appealing to them for help. He didn’t know, but his fear was reaching a fevered pitch, and recent experience had taught Harry that the resulting outburst would be dangerous. “A full pardon,” Voldemort suggested. “Clear Harry of all charges.”

Scrimgeour considered this for a moment. He was positive that Harry hadn’t killed Dumbledore of his own volition. However, the boy was extremely powerful, both magically, and as an icon, and cultivating additional animosity between him and the Ministry was a surefire path to disaster. “Certainly. I’ll have it drawn up by the end of the day.”

Harry said nothing, but his shoulders relaxed a little more, and he squeezed Voldemort’s hand. If the Dark Lord was surprised that Harry didn’t release his hold, he revealed nothing.

The conversation moved smoothly along after that point. Harry remained quiet, but listened as Voldemort and Minister Scrimgeour identified the areas where they were aligned, and squabbled over how they differed. He was surprised that they both advocated increased rights for those with Creature status, and, despite the Werewolf’s rejection of him, Harry smiled faintly at the thought that Remus would be able to own property, hold a bank account at Gringotts, and avoid discrimination in the workplace.

Both the Minister and Voldemort agreed that the Statue of Secrecy required strengthening, but when the conversation turned to Muggleborn children, the discussion grew more heated. “You can’t possibly expect me to abduct children from loving homes as soon as they show signs of accidental magic!” Scrimgeour argued.

“Of course you should,” Voldemort argued. “These children straddle two completely disparate worlds, and aren’t fully accepted in either. They enter Hogwarts with no understand of our traditions and customs, and as a result, are shunned by Purebloods. It’s no wonder that most Muggleborn wizards return to Muggle society after they graduate.”

“But the Muggle government would never agree to such a thing!”

“You have a team of Obliviators, do you not?”

Scrimgeour seemed to be on the verge of exploding at that statement. Harry, who had been watching this exchange closely, said, “Voldemort’s right, you know”

All three other wizards looked sharply at him. Harry rarely spoke up, especially around those who intimidated them. Voldemort found himself squeezing the hand that still clutched his. Harry seemed surprised to see that he was still holding on to the Dark Lord, and released his hold, face flushing.

“It should be a choice,” Harry continued, after a deep breath. “When a child displays accidental magic, a team of wizards should visit the family, explain what’s happening, and give the child a choice. If they wish to keep and learn about their magic, they are placed with a magical family who will raise them as their own. If they don’t wish to come, their magic is blocked, and they and their family is obliviated.”

“What family would agree to such a thing?” Scrimgeour said.

Harry laughed, a little bitterly. “Mine, for one. They would have been thrilled to be rid of me. I bet Hermione’s would have as well, if only to give her the opportunity to learn. Learning magic is a tremendous gift, and we diminish its value by allowing wizards to pick and choose how they interact with our World. We are doing them the favour, not the other way around.” He turned to Nagini then, whispering softly to her, stroking her smooth scales, completely oblivious to the surprised and impressed looks exchanged between the other men in the room.

Amused, Voldemort cleared his throat. “So, on to commerce and trade. Obviously, we have an advantage over the Muggles when it comes to the Gold Standard, but I think that we could make some improvements.”

Scrimgeour looked interested. “Such as?”

“Well, there are a number of functions that could be decentralized, such as warding, and maintenance of Ministry buildings, to name some examples. I also think that Azkaban is a dreadful misuse of resources, when we could simply Magically Castrate those who have been found guilty of crime.”

Scrimgeour’s interest turned to an expression of respect. “Your ideas have merit, Voldemort, but we’re rather ignoring the hippogriff in the room.”

“Oh?” Voldemort had been describing his ideas eagerly, but at Scrimgeour’s statement, his face became expressionless again. He prepared himself for another experience of the bourgeoisie excluding him for his parentage.

“Well, yes. You have a reputation as a homicidal madman. Although I can see how we might partner with one another, there’s no way I could align myself with such a personage. My platform has emphasized stability and safety. They’d never see it as anything other than selling out my morals.”

Voldemort considered this silently for a moment. It was true, the public, fearful and desperate for a saviour, would never accept Scrimgeour’s partnership with an evil Dark Lord. But Voldemort had no intention of leading from the sidelines. It would be easier, and faster, to align with the existing Minister, but not as an Advisor. Voldemort wanted to be Sovereign. 

“It would be possible,” Lucius said, “with a bit of work on your public relations, My Lord.” Both Voldemort and Scrimgeour looked at Lucius with interest. “This would not be a quick path to leadership,” he warned. “I believe, that if you took your rightful position as Lord Slytherin, aligned publicly with our esteemed Minister, that, within a year, you would be in the position you desire.”

Scrimgeour’s mind was working wildly. He didn’t wish to be the Minister, but had taken the position to avoid the Wizarding world falling into chaos after the non-confidence vote that had stripped Fudge of his title. If a suitable replacement were developed, Scrimgeour himself could return to leading the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, comfortable that his society’s safety were well in hand. “How could I trust you?” He asked, after some thought. “You and your followers have long spoken of mass genocide in the pursuit of Blood Purity. I couldn’t be sure that this isn’t all a plot to lull me into a false sense of security, only to follow your own agenda the moment you have the power you seek?”

Lucius, who had been thinking quickly himself, had an answer. “Harry, of course.”

This time, three heads whipped to look Lucius, questions filling their eyes. “Harry and My Lord already have an Unbreakable Vow,” Lucius continued. “The Vow currently prevents the massacre of any children, Magical or Muggle, but it could easily be modified to include an honesty and fidelity clause, and an expansion of the protection to children into one that includes any Magical being.” Lucius knew that Lord Voldemort had no intention of spilling any Magical blood, and so the alteration to the Vow would simply be an insurance policy for the Minister, while his Lord would be aligned with the most powerful person in their world. 

“But why wouldn’t Voldemort make the Vow directly with me?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Because he already has one, with Harry,” Lucius said patiently, as though speaking to a very dimwitted child.

“Vows can be dismissed,” Scrimgeour said, not willing to concede.

“This one cannot,” Voldemort said mildly, but his fingers surrounded his wand in preparation.

“Minister, the offer will not be negotiated. If you wish to pursue an alliance, you must decide whether you trust Harry Potter. You have been one of few who seemed convinced of his innocence. Now you must decide. Will you put your lot, and that of our society, in with Harry, or do you wish to end our discussion now and go your own way?”

“I’d like to ask Harry a few questions, if I may?” Voldemort stiffened, but Scrimgeour added, “You’re welcome to be present for the discussion.”

Harry looked up, his startling green eyes wary. “Harry,” Scrimgeour asked. “Why are you here?”

“I’m safe here,” Harry answered finally. “Voldemort saved my life, and he has agreed, that, as long as I stay, he won’t hurt any more children. It’s my duty to be here.”

Scrimgeour was frowning. “That seems like you’re a prisoner, like you’re being held hostage.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m useful to him,” he said dismissively. “I’m sure he didn’t want me here any more than I wanted to come, but we have our reasons for this arrangement.”

“But Harry, you have choices, you have agency. If you wanted to leave-”

Harry scoffed. “And go where?” He asked. “Back to Hogwarts, where I’m beaten within an inch of my life? Or to Azkaban? Or maybe back to my Muggle relatives so I can be starved and thrown into a cupboard? If I’m here, I can see Lucius and Narcissa, and Nagini. And Voldemort hasn’t hurt me since I arrived.”

“We could provide you with a Ministry safe house…”

“So I can be a prisoner for you instead of for Voldemort?” Harry parried back, his face twisting. “At least here I know what to expect. Voldemort has made no secret of why I live, and he has a vested interest in protecting me. Forgive my impertinence, Minister, but the moment you tire of me as a beacon for the light, I’ll be shipped back to the Dementors. Besides, if we changed the Vow, then I’d finally be useful in some way, even if it’s just to prevent more killings.”

Scrimgeour’s face filled with concern. He’d had no idea that Harry had become so jaded. “I’d like to arrange for some Mind Healers to come speak with you.”

“I’d like you to arrange to fuck off, then. I have no interest in Mind Healers. This discussion is going nowhere. Unless I missed something, you have a decision to make, so I’ll let you decide. Voldemort, may I go?”

Voldemort nodded, and Harry left the room, Nagini hot on his heels.

“Well, Minister? Which is it? Would you support an alliance, or shall we Obliviate you and send you on your happy way?” Voldemort asked.

“I’ll ally with you, Lord Voldemort. May Merlin have mercy on all of us.”


	10. Chapter 10

Harry was bored. He hadn’t thought it possible; the past year had taken such a toll that he’d thought he’d never feel anything so mundane as boredom ever again. But there was no denying it. Thanks to Narcissa’s gentle ministrations, his body had recovered. For the first time he could remember, Harry couldn’t see his ribs through his skin. His mind was also beginning to heal. Narcissa had respected his position regarding Mind Healing, but he’d found himself beginning to speak, a little at a time, about what had happened to him. He hadn’t been able to tell anyone about the Dursleys…it was too raw, too painful to admit that his only remaining blood family hated him. But, after many, many days of tea and mild conversation, Harry had told Narcissa about what had happened in the Ministry that night. She’d wept with him over Sirius’ death. Harry had been surprised to find out that Narcissa had been close to her cousin, until their differing politics had caused a rift between the families.

Slowly, like a towel hung to dry, the pain had dripped from Harry, until he felt a little better, a bit stronger. Surprisingly, Lucius and Nagini had become trusted confidants as well. Nagini wasn’t a terrific conversationalist. Snakes, it had turned out, were fairly simple creatures, and so Harry mostly spoke to her of simple things, but she was excellent at helping him solve problems. As Harry struggled with the lethargy of having been captive in the Manor for weeks on end, it was to Nagini that he complained. “I’m tired of reading,” he muttered, as she coiled companionably around his midsection. “I know I should be grateful for my life here, and I am, but I just wish I had something to _do_.”

“You’ll find something,” Nagini said confidently. “You’re a smart hatchling.”

Harry wasn’t so sure, and, when the restlessness became too much, he unwrapped a sleeping Nagini from his middle and set out to wander the Manor. There were a few areas that Harry knew to steer clear of. He certainly didn’t want to run into any Death Eaters, Narcissa and Lucius aside, so the ballroom that Voldemort used as his meeting area was out of bounds. He’d worked his way through much of the extensive Library, firmly avoiding anything on Dark Magic. In desperation, he found himself in the kitchen, where a crowd of tiny elves were busily preparing the evening meal.

“Master Harry Potter, sir!” one of them squeaked. “What is you doing in the kitchens?”

“I just thought maybe I’d help you,” Harry said. This revelation was greeted by a chorus of wails.

“We is bad elves who can’t care for Master Harry Potter,” an elf cried, before banging her head soundly onto the granite countertop. 

“No, please, stop!” Harry was horrified. “You’re good elves, please, please don’t hurt yourself. I’ll…I’ll just go.” He ran from the kitchens, feeling foolish and useless. He didn’t see the Wizard in front of him until he ran headlong into him, falling onto his arse with a grunt.

“Harry, are you alright?” Lucius helped him to his feet.

“Yes, no...I…I upset Voldemort’s elves. I’m sorry,” Harry muttered, his face flushed. “I was just trying to find something to do. I thought I might be useful.”

“Harry, you don’t need to help out in the kitchens,” Lucius seemed perplexed as to why Harry would have wanted to. “Just make yourself at home.”

“That's what I _would_ be doing at home,” Harry said mildly.

“Well, pretend you’re Draco, then.” Lucius’ smile was kind. He knew full well that his son was overindulged. 

Harry responded with a doubtful shrug. “I don’t think I’d know how.”

“Well, on a lovely day like today, Draco would likely go for a fly,” Lucius said. Something long forgotten, seemed to awaken in Harry, and Lucius saw his eyes shine for a moment, before dulling again.

“I don’t think I’m allowed. The Ministry gave me a lifetime ban from flying.”

“Who’s here to tell on you?” A tiny smile appeared on Harry’s lips. Lucius showed him to the broom shed and charmed a stone into a practice snitch. “Off you go, then.”

Harry climbed onto the broom with a look of reverence. He smiled at Lucius, the first truly joyful smile that he’d given anyone since being brought to the manor. Then, like a shot, he was gone, disappearing high into the sky. Lucius watched him for a while. He was a gifted flyer, and possessed a grace in the air that he didn’t have on land. As he dove after the snitch, Lucius heard him laughing, and the sound filled the older Wizard with joy.

The joy, however, was quickly replaced by fear, as a positively livid Dark Lord appeared on the pitch beside him. “Why,” Voldemort asked conversationally, “is the boy, whom I’ve instructed you to protect with greater care than with your own life, currently risking his life on a stick with some twigs?”

Lucius cringed. This chatty tone that the Dark Lord employed was usually a precursor to truly inventive cursing. “He’s bored, My Lord. I thought the fresh air would do him good.”

“The air is fresh here on the ground as well.”

“It is,” Lucius agreed. “But, My Lord, just look at him. He’s happy”

“I don’t have any concern for his happiness,” Voldemort said bitingly. In fact, the bubbling happiness leaching from the bond, now completely filling his psyche, was a distraction that Voldemort didn't need. Nevertheless, he glanced up into the sky to watch. Harry _was_ magnificent on a broom, he noted. As Harry chased the snitch, skimming the ground with his toes, Voldemort felt his heart catch. His Horcrux! In danger! “Get. Him. Down.” He said through his teeth, tensing to cast a skin-flaying curse on his second-in-command. 

“No,” Lucius said. 

Voldemort’s eyes widened. “You defy your Lord?” He asked incredulously.

Lucius sighed. “Yes,” he said sadly. “I can’t stop him. He’s not in any more danger than he was playing Quidditch in school. Less in fact, and this is the first time I’ve heard him laugh. Give him this, My Lord. Just a few more minutes.”

Ordinarily, Voldemort’s temper would have boiled over by this point, and his wand would be a blur as he cast one pain-filled curse after another. Perhaps it was his recently recovered mental state, or maybe it was Harry’s joy bleeding into him, but whatever the reason, he stood next to Lucius and watched the boy swooping through the air. He caught the snitch easily, and set it free again, only to give it a head start, then go diving after it. It was only after he’d caught the snitch three more times, and flipped upside down joyously, causing Voldemort’s throat to close in panic that the Dark Lord had had enough.

“Potter!” He hollered. Harry startled, his hands slipping from their grip on the broom. He recovered quickly, and obediently flew down to the ground and walked towards Lucius and Voldemort, his face full of apprehension. Voldemort wasn’t sure why he grabbed Harry’s arms the way he did, pulling him close and bringing his face near to his. Harry, alarmed by the rough treatment, trembled. “What were you doing?” Voldemort hissed.

“F-flying? Was it not okay? I didn’t hurt the broom…” Harry’s voice trailed off anxiously, his eyes darting to Lucius’.

“I don’t care about the broom, you simpleton. You could have been killed!”

“Oh,” Harry said, all of the joy from flying dissipating. “Horcrux. I didn’t think.” His head dipped, and Voldemort could no longer see his eyes. With a growl of frustration, Voldemort gripped his chin and forced eye contact. 

Again, Harry’s eyes darted toward Lucius’, and Voldemort felt a wave of possessiveness and jealousy come over him. His eyes narrowed and he hissed in Parseltongue, “Look at me, Harry”

The green eyes that met his were full of fear. Voldemort cursed inwardly. He didn’t want Harry to look at him like that, with fear and mistrust. “It’s not the Horcrux I’m worried about,” he said angrily. “Why do you consider yourself so meaningless?”

“Huh?” Harry asked, a little dazed by the rough handling, and the yelling, and Voldemort’s closeness.

“You fool,” Voldemort continued. “How can you not see that you should be _treasured_?” And, almost as though his body were out of his control, Voldemort pulled Harry closer to him and kissed him soundly. Harry’s gasp gave Voldemort license to thrust his tongue between the parted lips. Harry hung bonelessly in his arms for a moment, and then, tentatively, his arms encircled the Dark Lord and he returned the kiss. Voldemort’s thoughts swam alarmingly, as he tasted his favourite enemy. Harry’s mouth was _sinful_. As their tongues danced together, Harry whimpered and clutched Voldemort tighter. It ended, as kisses must, their need for breath outweighing the delight of one another’s mouths.

Harry gaped at Voldemort, his lips red and wet, his eyes enormous. He was panting, and the arms that still encircled Voldemort’s waist were trembling. He blinked stupidly at Voldemort for a few seconds, then wrenched himself free of the Dark Lord’s grasp and sprinted into the Manor.

Voldemort remained motionless, standing exactly where Harry had left him, his mind working furiously. What was that? What had prompted him to kiss Harry? And why had he enjoyed it so much? He _hated_ this, his emotions not his own, his actions incomprehensible. He was reminded that he wasn’t alone when Lucius cleared his throat. “Not a single word, Lucius,” he warned.

“Certainly, My Lord” Lucius’ voice was full of laughter. Voldemort’s wand hand itched, and he glared at the Wizard, who paled a little, but was unable to dispel the mirth in his eyes.

“Come inside. I wish to speak of what will take place at the Wizengamot tomorrow,” Voldemort commanded, trying desperately to regain control of the situation. If Lucius smirked while following his Lord inside the Manor, it wasn’t mentioned.

Harry had sought out the comforting bulk of Nagini the moment he entered the Manor. He found her where he’d left her, curled in front of his fireplace. She awoke as he crashed through the door. “Hatchling!” She hissed delightedly. As her familiar bulk coiled around him, Harry struggled to get his breathing under control. He closed his eyes, only opening them when he felt the familiar caress of Nagini’s tongue, scenting his face. “You smell different,” she mused. More sniffing, and then, “Hatchling! You’ve found a mate?”

“No!” Harry cried.

“But you smell of arousal.” She scented more. “And Tom? Hatchling, Tom is your mate! This is wonderful!” 

“No, no, he’s not, and no, it’s not!” Harry’s voice was a little wild. “I don’t know why he kissed me! He was mad at me, and then he kissed me!”

“And what did you do?”

“I ran away! Merlin, this is a disaster. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why is it bad?” Nagini wanted to know. “You are attracted to him, he is attracted to you. You will mate.” 

“He isn’t,” Harry insisted. “I think he was just mad or something. Maybe he wanted to scare me? Do people do that?”

“Why don’t you want him to desire you? To care about you?” 

“Because he wouldn’t, he can’t!” Harry’s voice trembled. 

Nagini scoffed. “You’re as stubborn as Tom. Never mind, you’ll sort that out eventually, my hatchling. Once the bad smell has gone.”

“I don’t smell!” Harry was affronted.

“Of course you do. You smell like shame.”

“I…I…no I don’t!”

“Of course not, Hatchling, you know best.” Nagini sounded smug, and Harry hated her, just a little, in that moment.

***

Voldemort read the article in the Prophet with not a little smugness. His new alliance with Scrimgeour was already bearing fruit. News of Lord Voldemort’s ascension to his rightful position as Lord Slytherin had made the paper this morning, and the writer to whom they’d slipped a bag of galleons was verbose in his praise for Slytherin’s platform. In a carefully leaked statement (from Lucius, of course), Lord Slytherin was touted as a proponent of magical secrecy, rights and research for Squibs, a protection of their traditions. No bothersome mention of Slytherin’s murder of Albus Dumbledore or his recent mass genocide in Muggle villages. Best, an artfully vague statement from Scrimgeour about future cooperation between Slytherin’s amassed followers and the dawn of a new, peaceful era for Magical Britain. It was a piece of art, the column, and any statements that the Order or Dumbledore’s other followers might make would seem churlish and petty. 

Thus, it was a simply gleeful Lord Voldemort who strode through his manor, in search of Lucius and another satisfying planning session. When he heard voices in the Library, he barely broke his stride, until he identified the owner of the voices. It seemed that Harry and Severus were having a planning session of their own.

“…would you wish to do, then?” Severus was saying. Voldemort paused outside the door.

“That’s what I don’t know, sir. I’m not allowed to do anything. He won’t even let me go on a broom. The elves won’t let me help them. I swear, I’ve read everything in this Library.” Harry sounded frustrated.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Have you? No disrespect, sir, but you seem as rudderless as I am. I’ve noticed that you’re still hiding in corners.”

Snape’s voice sounded amused. “Oh, I’m in disgrace, at the moment. I’m content not to be killed or tortured.”

Harry snorted. “Oh, really? You’re happy to have no purpose in life, just wasting time?”

“Well…”

Harry sighed. “So we’re both in the same boat. At least you have a chance of having a life outside the Manor. I’ll be here forever. I’m like Rapunzel.” 

“I have a suggestion,” Snape finally said. “You’re obviously not returning to Hogwarts, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t continue your education.”

“How, sir? I already told you that I’ve read practically the entire library.”

“Have you not one of the finest Professors that Hogwarts has seen, at your disposal?”

Harry laughed. Voldemort tried to ignore the spreading warmth he felt at the sound. “Finest Professor, eh? Well, you might be a cranky git, but I can’t argue that you’re clever. And you’re at my disposal?” His voice was teasing, and Voldemort thought, a little bitterly, almost flirtatious. He tempered his annoyance, and continued to listen.

“You are an impertinent little imp. But yes, I am available to you for whatever you need.” Severus’ deep voice was filled with laughter.

“Brilliant. So you’ll teach me whatever I need to know? I don’t guess I need to learn how to beat Voldemort anymore, but maybe if I learned something, I could be useful to somebody.”

“Harry,” Severus’ voice turned serious. “You must cease defining yourself by the scar on your forehead. You’re a talented Wizard, with boundless potential. You aren’t a weapon.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known. Nobody’s ever bothered to look past the whole ‘boy who lived’ tosh. I’m not sure that there _is_ anything more than that.”

“Well, that will serve as our first lesson. You are not the Boy who Lived any longer. You aren’t Dumbledore’s pawn, or Voldemort’s captive. You’re Harry Potter. Now, we need to learn who exactly he is.”

There was the sound of rustling robes, and Voldemort could not stop himself from peering through the doorway. To his surprise, Harry had flung himself into Snape’s arms and was embracing his Professor. Severus looked alarmed, unaccustomed to the familiar contact, but before long, he overcame his shyness, and returned the embrace. “Thank you, sir”. Harry’s voice was muffled as he buried his face into the black robes.

“Of course. Now unhand me, before I hex you.” Harry gave a little giggle and returned to his seat. 

“Do you suppose that _he_ might someday see me as something other than a vessel for his soul?” Harry’s voice was small.

“He’d be foolish to do otherwise,” Severus replied, his tones warmer than Voldemort had ever heard. He battled another wave of jealousy. Another of his followers, bewitched by this troublesome ingrate! He knew that Severus was not one to welcome physical contact from another. If his errant Potions Master knew what was good for him, he’d keep his hands off the boy and cease the flirtatious behaviour immediately. Voldemort had indulged Lucius and Narcissa’s affection for Potter, as it had done the boy some good, but Voldemort would be damned if he allowed someone to take advantage of _his_ Harry. He was about to crash through the doors and demand that Severus leave, when he stopped. Since when did he think of Potter as his Harry? This did not bear consideration, so he forced his mind toward a different topic. 

In truth, Potter did need something to keep him occupied, lest he continue this downward spiral into despair. And, educating the boy wasn’t a bad thing. He was young, unseasoned. His life in the Muggle world had inadequately prepared him for entrance into Wizarding society. Voldemort decided. Snape would be permitted to instruct the boy in the Hogwarts curriculum. Voldemort himself would instruct him in Wizarding customs, etiquette, and law. In truth, he had no idea why he was volunteering to educate the boy, but, perhaps Lucius were right. Harry could be useful to him, especially with a few well-placed efforts to rehabilitate his image. Besides, this way, he could monitor Snape’s influence on his treasure.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a very constructive comment, I decided to make some minor changes to the numbers, because my hastily compiled numbers made no sense. Hope it doesn't detract for anyone who read earlier versions of this chapter.

Not for the first time in his life, Severus Snape found himself despairing over Harry Potter. The difference, this time, was that his frustration was with himself. When Harry had entered Hogwarts, tinier by far than his classmates, enormous eyes filled with wariness, Severus had seen exactly what he expected: An arrogant child, riding the coattails of his fame. Harry had done no preparation for his entry into school. While even the most dunderheaded of his classmates had at least familiarized themselves with the assigned pre-reading, Harry had obviously read none of it. Severus was certain that he’d never bothered to read the pamphlet that had been included in his welcome package, detailing specific safety procedures for Potions lessons. Severus had been incensed as Harry had willfully ignored the regulations that existed for his safety. Even the little Longbottom boy, although woefully unable to brew, hadn’t caused any issues due to disregard of procedures. _Though_, Severus had reflected wryly, _he’d managed enough mishaps due to sheer ineptitude_.

In his first year, after assigning Potter detention for his lack of care, he’d seen the frustration rise in a florid flush up the boy’s neck. The Weasley lad had, of course, risen to Potter’s defence, and watching the two of them snicker together (no doubt at Severus’ expense), had been so reminiscent of the elder Potter and Black, that Severus had decided at that moment, that he loathed the younger Potter equally to the older one, and had set out to punish the both of them by using his position as a professor.

With newly opened eyes, however, Severus reflected that he may have been far too harsh on the boy. As he began to tutor Harry in a hasty-assembled classroom in Voldemort’s Manor, he’d found an eager student, who quickly grasped concepts, made logical conclusions, and, to Severus’ eternal shock, displayed an aptitude for brewing that he’d never seen before. And yet, he still insisted on flouting safety procedures. One afternoon, early on his newly-resumed studies, Harry had casually grasped a stirring rod that still bore remnants of Salamander blood, and was about to thrust it into his brew when Severus hastily summoned it.

“Harry!” His voice was sharp. “When will you learn to stop reusing contaminated stirring rods?”

“Huh?” Harry had seemed oblivious to his barely-evaded demise. “What do you mean?”

“You were planning on using this stirring rod,” Severus brandished the offending tool in Potter’s face. “But you know that cross contamination can have disastrous results. It’s a topic that is covered before you even cross the threshold of Hogwarts.”

The look of utter mutiny that crossed Harry’s face was a sight to behold. “That’s so discriminatory,” he muttered.

Severus wasn’t following. “How so?”

“Muggleborn and Muggle raised children have no hope. The Purebloods have someone who can teach them ahead of time, but it’s not fair for those of us who didn’t even know we were a Wizard until Hagrid showed up.”

Severus felt a small prickle of unease. “Who, exactly, told you that you were a Wizard?”

“Hagrid. He came to visit after my Uncle Vernon wouldn’t let me open my Hogwarts letters.”

“But…” Severus found himself speechless. Hagrid? Dumbledore sent Hagrid to introduce Harry to the Wizarding World? “Surely your Guardian had shown you your Mother’s school things?”

Harry snorted. “The Guardians who hated and feared magic so much that they beat me within an inch of my life and locked me in a closet when I accidentally performed it? It must have slipped their minds. They told me that my parents were drunks who died in a car crash.”

Severus fought the irrational desire to visit the Dursleys and enact every petty form of torture they’d visited on Harry. Later, he promised himself. “But surely they allowed you to read the pamphlets and leaflets that are provided to Muggleborn children?”

Harry shook his head. “There were no pamphlets. Hagrid didn’t even tell me how to get onto Platform nine and three-quarters. If the Weasleys hadn’t happened by just then, I wouldn’t have made it onto the train.” 

Severus took a long, slow breath, then, slowly, pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes slipping closed. When they reopened, they were glittering like stones at the bottom of a river. “I will go to the Department of Mysteries,” he said softly. “and I will find one of the time-turners that you and your associates destroyed. I will spend the rest of my life repairing one of them, if need be.” He stood then, and stalked to the window. “And then I will use that time-turner to go back in time and kick Albus Dumbledore in the arse and then kill him myself.”

When he turned around, his fury in check (he’d learned quickly that displaying his normal levels of temper around Harry simply undid the boy, and he’d been making an effort to curb himself), Harry was gaping at him in open-mouthed horror. “Sir,” he gasped.

“I’m sorry, Harry, so sorry,” Severus said, allowing himself one moment of unguarded emotions. “You’ve been done such a dreadful disservice. It should have been Minerva who introduced your heritage to you, or, I suppose, me, in a pinch. It should never have been Hagrid.”

“Hagrid’s alright,” Harry argued, but Severus could see poorly hidden feelings of betrayal in his expression. “He showed me where to get my money, and where to get a wand. I was alright, sir”. The green eyes shone with his desire to placate his professor.

“You weren’t. Hagrid is enthusiastic, but he’s never been trained on what you need to know. I can’t imagine what Dumbledore was thinking.” Severus replied.

“I did okay,” Harry argued.

“Of course you did, but I am so sorry that I was needlessly cruel over your lack of knowledge. Does this mean that you never learned any of the Wizarding customs?”

Harry tilted his head. “Like duelling?”

“Well, yes, that, certainly, but more specifically, how to fulfill your duties as Heir to House Potter, and what to do with your money, and the expectations that will need to be met as a member of the Wizengamot?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Heir to House Potter? I thought that all of the poncing about that Malfoy did was because he was a prat. Are you telling me that he was just obeying Wizarding Customs?” At Severus’ nod, Harry flushed. “So I’ve been cocking it all up, haven’t I?” He said quietly. 

“A little,” Severus admitted, feeling a bit ashamed at how often he’d chided Harry for his ignorance.

Harry’s head dipped to his chest, and Severus couldn’t see his eyes. “I just don’t understand why nobody would have told me,” he whispered. “I always thought that Dumbledore was looking out for me, but he can’t have been, can he?” Tear-filled eyes met Severus’. “I’ve come to realize that he was raising me for no other purpose than to face Voldemort’s wand, but it just seems so…mean, for him to have kept me so uneducated.”

Again, Severus was out of his depths. “Potter,” he ventured. Harry looked away, trembling a little. Fearful that he’d be rebuffed, Severus reached a tentative hand to Harry’s shoulder. “Harry?”

Harry looked up again, and Severus was riveted by his eyes, made even more vibrant by the tears that swam there. “I’m sorry,” Severus said. “Truly. I’m so sorry, child. You should never have been treated this way. You deserved more.” To his astonishment, Harry launched himself at his Professor, arms circling the older man’s middle.

Severus felt his own arms encircle the thin shoulders. Harry was trembling. “Thank you for saying that,” Harry said, his voice muffled by Severus’ robes. “Nobody’s ever said that before.” Awkwardly, Severus patted the wild riot of hair, deeply uncertain, but determined not to rebuff the tentative warmth that had arisen between them. Had things gone differently, had Severus not made so many mistakes, this could have been his own child. 

Things were interrupted rather smartly by the door banging open, and Voldemort stalking in. “This is charming,” he sneered. Severus quailed inwardly. It was obvious that Voldemort was angry, but Severus was unsure why. In situations such as these, it was best to tread carefully. He carefully removed Harry’s arms from his waist, and knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet.

“My Lord,” he said.

“Oh stand up, Severus. I don’t want to interrupt your tryst.”

Severus rose uncertainly. Tryst? Was he implying that he were seducing Harry? The boy was only sixteen…and, well, a _boy_. “My Lord, I’m not certain…”

“Oh, you seemed very certain,” Voldemort purred. Severus disquiet grew. Surely the Crucios would start flying at any moment.

“My Lord, Harry has just become aware of another betrayal by Dumbledore. It seems that no one has instructed Harry as to his obligations as Heir to the Potter line. In fact, he received no instruction regarding the Wizarding world at all, prior to his first day at Hogwarts. What you witnessed was nothing more than his reaction to my apology for his mistreatment.”

Severus felt his mind ripped open with force, as Voldemort mercilessly trolled his mind for any evidence to contradict his statement. To his considerable relief, the presence invading his mind soon lessened, but Voldemort wasn’t looking any less angry. “Potter,” he barked. “You’ve never been instructed on our customs and traditions? It hasn’t been explained to you of your responsibilities in parliament?” Harry shook his head, looking a little fearful. “Very well. I will instruct you.”

“Y-you will?” Harry looked uncertainly up at Voldemort, who had moved between Severus and Harry and now hovered possessively over him.

Insulted, Voldemort glared at him. “You do not wish for my tutelage?”

“No, it’s not that. I just know that you’re busy.”

“What could be more important than ensuring you know your role in our society?” Voldemort asked.

Harry flushed. “You don’t have to make fun of me,” he muttered.

“Potter,” Voldemort hissed, impatient, but, seeing the look on Harry’s face, he thought again of Lucius’ advice. Perhaps this would be a way to convince Potter to ally with his mission. He _was_ influential, and, if his spellwork at the Ministry were any indication, had potential, magically speaking. Biting back his temper, he breathed. “Harry. I’m not making fun of you. I am responsible for you, now. Your magical upbringing has been neglected to this point, and I wish to rectify that. It is a part of taking care of you.” 

Harry cast an unreadable look at Severus, who intervened, “Harry, if you wish to learn more about our world, you couldn’t find a more capable instructor than My Lord. I believe that he knows more than even Lucius.”

“I would like to learn,” Harry admitted, his expression shy. Voldemort realized that it was costing him a lot to admit that he wanted something.

“Then you shall,” he said. “We will begin tomorrow.” Proclamation made, he turned and walked briskly toward the door.

“Voldemort?” Harry said. Voldemort turned back. “Thank you.”

Something warmed in the Dark Lord. He nodded solemnly before turning and leaving. Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall and wondered at himself. Why was he filling his already-busy schedule with lessons, when Lucius or even Severus himself could do the job? Nagini happened by as he was grappling with his irrational behaviour. “Thinking too hard again,” she muttered. “Did you insult my Hatchling?”

“No,” Voldemort said defensively. “I offered to tutor him.”

“What’s tutoring?” Nagini asked eagerly.

“Lessons. Teaching him how to be a wizard.”

Nagini’s excitement deflated instantly. “Oh. I thought that you were finally going to mate him.”

Voldemort sputtered. “I have no intention of mating him. Besides, he’s underage.”

“That’s not what his scent says,” she argued. “I wonder whether you are both so stubborn that you’ll ignore what’s right in front of you. Humans are foolish, Tom”

“So you keep telling me,” Voldemort replied, disappearing into his office, and resolving not to think of Potter for the rest of the day.

The following morning, however, a knock at his office door sounded at eight sharp. “Come,” he called.

The door opened, and a tousled head peered around the doorframe. “Lucius said that you wanted me?”

The innocent phrasing reminded Voldemort of his uncomfortable conversation with Nagini the day prior, but he ignored the unintentional innuendo, and said, “Yes, let’s begin your training.”

“Are you sure you have time?”

Voldemort glared at Harry, forehead wrinkled. “Why must you do that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why do you act as though you deserve nothing?”

The expression on Harry’s face was one of incredulity. He stammered for a moment, unsure how to answer. Finally, he said softly, “You, and others, have made me this way.”

Voldemort frowned. This wouldn’t do. If he wished to have Harry take his rightful place as part of their society, he must be made to see his own worth. Otherwise, he’d be eaten alive by his detractors. How could he change years of conditioning? It was a puzzle, and Voldemort found himself curious. “Very well,” he said, pleasantly. “Then, I propose an exchange. In return for my instruction, you will tell me how. I wish to understand what your life has been like.”

Harry’s jaw hardened. “I don’t wish to speak of it.” Voldemort’s frown deepened, and Harry sensed a temper tantrum rising. “Would you like to relive every painful moment in your life? Would you confess to your most feared enemy your every humiliation?”

Voldemort was unsure why it bothered him to be referred to as Harry’s ‘most feared enemy’, but he had to acknowledge the truth in the statement. “I understand,” he said finally. “I will not force you. However, that does not lessen my wish to understand.”

Harry’s face was expressionless, as though he were masking his feelings. Voldemort promised himself to return to the subject until Harry learned to trust him on his own. “Now,” he said. “Let’s begin. What do you know of the Wizengamot?”

“Not much,” Harry admitted. “I know that Dumbledore was a chief or something. I know that people like Lucius are members.”

“Both of those things are correct, however, there’s a little more to it than that. The Wizengamot serves both as our high court and our parliament, responsible for setting new laws, as well as ensuring that justice is served to those who do not follow them.” As Harry nodded his understanding, he continued. “Members of the Wizengamot are appointed in a number of ways. A number of members are so because of their family lineage. Lucius, for example, holds a number of seats, or votes, because of his role as Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. Others are appointed because of their role within the Ministry. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, for example, holds a seat, and is entitled to one vote. There are also a number of single vote seats that are available to be bestowed upon members of society by the Minister for Magic.”

“So does everyone get one vote?” Harry asked.

“Not exactly. Certain houses, those termed ‘Ancient and Noble Houses’, entitle the seat holder to additional votes, ten to be exact. And in some cases, due to marriage or inheritance, the votes of other houses can be pledged to another member. Lastly, in situations where a seat holder falls into financial hardship, or is unable to protect their family in strife, they may pledge to a more powerful house, ceding their seats to their protector.”

“How many seats do you hold?”

“Well, as Lord Slytherin, I’m entitled to ten, and I also hold the Parkinson seats, and the Nott seats, taking my total to thirty.”

“So does that make you the most powerful member?” Harry asked.

Voldemort laughed. “No, not by a long shot. In fact, I hold the same number of seats as you do.”

“Me?” Harry looked thunderstruck. “I have thirty seats in parliament? But my Mum was a Muggleborn.”

“Yes, but don’t forget, you are the Heir to House Potter, which is ten, and, if my sources are correct, you’re also Heir to House Black. With the demise of your Godfather, you inherited his ten seats.”

Harry looked pained at this. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know I was Sirius’ heir.”

“And,” Voldemort continued smoothly, “As your Father was also Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, you inherited ten seats there as well.”

Instead of being delighted, Voldemort was annoyed to note that Harry looked mutinous again. “That’s so unfair.” He scowled. 

“Unfair?”

“I mean, I always knew that the Purebloods controlled everything, but, really, there’s no hope for someone outside the elite to be in control. How many seats does Lucius hold?”

“Around fifty, I believe.”

“The Wizarding World is fucked, then,” Harry muttered.

“Excuse me? How, exactly, is the world _fucked_?” Voldemort said. He delighted in the way the word felt on his tongue, and further delighted in the way Harry’s eyes dilated before his face was suffused with colour.

“How many seats do the Purebloods hold?”

“Around three hundred and forty, I believe. Some of the older names have died out, and, without heirs, the seats have gone dormant.”

“And the appointed ones? How many seats there?”

“A few more seats are added each time a new Minister is appointed, it seems. Last I saw, it was up to one hundred and fifty.”

Harry stared at Voldemort for a moment, obviously waiting for him to realize something. Voldemort spent no time trying to figure it out, instead, watching as Harry’s sparkling eyes grew angrier. When Harry realized that Voldemort was simply watching him, he emitted a frustrated noise. “Are you deliberately being obtuse?” 

“Careful, Harry,” Voldemort warned, his voice stern, but inwardly, he was delighting that Harry was showing some of the familiar spark of defiance that had been so absent.

“It’s just that, there’s no hope for anyone other than the same inbred racists to be in control. If the old houses have three hundred and forty seats between them, and everyone else only has a hundred and fifty, any new ideas will automatically be rejected, and the same tired way of doing things just goes on and on. It’s why house elves will always be mistreated, and creatures will always be discriminated against, and little shits like Malfoy will always call people like Hermione a Mudblood. What’s the point?” Harry slumped against the back of his chair, seeming to diminish a little.

“The point,” Voldemort hissed, suddenly annoyed, “is that we can change the system. The point, is to gain control from the inside and make the kind of Ministry that we want.”

“You think we could?” Harry asked, and his eyes were alight with interest. “Do you really?”

“I think,” Voldemort said honestly, “that if we aligned our goals, there’s very little that you and I couldn’t do.”

For a moment, Harry’s eyes flared again, with something more primal, and Voldemort felt his body suffuse with lust. This was the Harry Potter that he wanted to serve him. The one with principles, and ideas, and snapping eyes.

“Maybe,” Harry mused, his expression faraway. 

“You have a great deal to learn, though, before you’re ready to take on your responsibilities. You know nothing of our traditions. Are you ready to work hard?” Voldemort asked.

“I’m not afraid of hard work. I want to learn. I want to regain what I would have had it my parents had been able to raise me.” The expression on Harry’s face was challenging now, as if he wished to remind Voldemort exactly why he’d been raised by Muggles. 

With no wish to discuss such unpleasantness, Voldemort continued. “Yule is in two weeks. You’ll be responsible for a significant part of the ritual, if you wish.”

“I wish,” Harry said firmly. His eyes met Voldemort’s, and heat flared between them, resulting in an unexpected, pleasant, but inconvenient, reaction within the Dark Lord's trousers. Distracted by his physical response to the passion he saw in Harry's eyes, Voldemort found himself again wrongfooted. 

“That’s all for today,” he said sharply. “Tell Lucius I wish to see him.” 

As the door closed behind Harry, Voldemort leaned against the frame, his breaths coming in gasps. He was achingly hard. With a hand that seemed foreign to him, he palmed his erection, his vision clouded. Pinching his eyes shut, the verdant green eyes still glaring into his mind’s eye, he was unable to help himself from unbuttoning his trousers and removing his member. Stroking his length quickly, within moments, he felt the familiar tightening in his stomach, and he spilled his essence over his hand, Harry’s name moaned between his gritted teeth.

As he spelled the evidence away, Voldemort sighed. Nagini would never let him hear the end of this.


	12. The Field Trip

When Harry arrived at his office door the following morning, Voldemort was prepared for him. “Fetch your travelling cloak,” he instructed. “We’re taking a field trip.”

Harry grinned at the Muggle terminology, and ran off to gather his things. He’d been terribly uncomfortable when Voldemort had presented him with a new wardrobe, but, if it resulted in excursions from the Manor, he’d deal with the embarrassment. He returned to Voldemort’s office, his expression eager. Voldemort thought he looked rather like a crup…if he’d had tails, they’d be wagging wildly.

“Where are we going?”

“Gringotts,” Voldemort replied, “It’s time that you explored your vaults a little more thoroughly.”

“Do I need money for something? That’s all that’s there. Do people sometimes store other stuff in their vaults?”

“How many times have you been to your vaults, Harry?” Voldemort asked. 

“Um…first year? After that, Mrs. Weasley got me my money.”

Voldemort sighed. Each time he thought he’d uncovered the last of the things kept from Harry, he discovered another. “You’ve probably only seen your Trust Vault”. At Harry’s confused expression, he continued, “Usually, Wizarding Parents will begin a vault for their Heir, to be at their disposal during their school years. Once they come of age, or assume their Lordship, they are granted access to the full family Vaults.”

“So there’s more?” Harry looked astounded.

“Let’s find out,” Voldemort said, apparating Harry into the wide entrance hallway of Gringotts bank.

Sure enough, it was discovered that Harry had been accessing his Heir Vault, and a number of other Vaults were at his disposal, once he came of age. Harry seemed excited. “Do you suppose there are any photographs of my family?” He asked, eyes wide.

Griphook, the Goblin who had escorted him into a private chamber to discuss the matter, eyed the young Wizard with interest. He’d been surprised that Harry Potter had remembered that he was the Goblin who had originally shown Harry to his vault as a child of eleven. Such courtesy wasn’t common in Wizards. Now, seeing how desperate the boy was for any tie to his parents, he decided to make an exception to his normal policy of ignoring the matters of any Wizard. “Mister Potter,” he said, “did you not participate in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?” 

Harry nodded. It had been a terrible year, and he hated discussing it. He was saddened that Griphook had brought it up. It had been a nice day so far. The Goblin smiled at him, which was a little unnerving, given all of his pointed teeth. “Then I have good news for you. In the eyes of Wizard law, by participating in the Tournament, you, in essence, completed a magical contract, since you were unable to remove yourself from play. This automatically grants you the status of a legal adult, since your Magical Guardian didn’t forbid your participation. If you wish, you may access all of your Vaults immediately.”

Harry smiled then, and the joy that crossed his face again caused warmth to flood through Voldemort. Griphook, normally a very unemotional creature, smiled again. “I take it you’d like to see them?”

“Please?” Harry was alight with hope and excitement.

The ride to the main Potter vault was uneventful, if exciting, and Harry’s cheeks were bright and his eyes were dancing as he nimbly leapt from the cart. He stood in front of the ornate vault door, uncertain. “Place your hand on the panel,” Griphook pointed. “The vault will extract one drop of blood to prove your identity, and then open.” Harry did so, and the door creaked open. Harry hesitated on the threshold.

Suddenly, he turned to Voldemort. “Will you come in with me?” Voldemort nodded and Harry took his hand before taking a deep breath and entering the Vault. It was, to Voldemort’s estimation, a perfectly ordinary Pureblood vault. Piles of gold covered the floor and a number of artifacts stood on shelving units along the walls. Several trunks sat in a corner. A small wooden box was sitting conspicuously in the middle of the vault, with a creamy envelope atop it. Written in beautiful penmanship on the envelope was Harry’s name. Harry was looking around in awe, so Voldemort touched his arm. When Harry turned dazzled eyes his way, Voldemort gestured to the box. “Oh,” Harry breathed. He knelt in front of the box and opened the envelope. 

To Voldemort’s surprise, Harry read aloud:

_To our dearest Harry,_

_If you’re reading this, it means that your father and I have gone. As much as I hope and pray to the gods that we’ve lived a long life with you, the way the war is escalating suggests that life holds no such guarantees. I hope that you’ve led a happy life, in spite of our absence._

_Know that your father and I love you so dearly, Harry, and whatever happens, we’ll be watching over you. If the Prophecy is true, then you’ll likely be pulled in every direction, by people who don’t have your best interests at heart. Stay true to yourself, trust carefully, and know that, whatever decision you make in life, we support you unconditionally._

_Your father wants me to add that he hopes that you are a Gryffindor, and that you continue to show the excellent progress you’re making on your broom. I think, Quidditch-obsessed as he is, he expects you to try out for the team when you arrive at Hogwarts. Personally, I hope that you excel at potions, but more than anything, I want you to chase happiness. Nothing in life is guaranteed, Harry, not the people around us, or any circumstance, so if you find something, or someone who makes you feel happy and safe, hold on tight._

_With all our love,  
Mum and Dad._

As he finished reading, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and smiled. “I wonder what’s in the box?” As he opened it, he gasped. Inside, were stacks of photographs, and a series of slim volumes. Harry opened one, and a little sound escaped him. “They’re journals,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My mother’s journals.” He ran his hand reverently along his mother’s handwriting. “I could spend all day here!”

“Take them with you. We’ll return again soon, now that you have access. You should have received some of these things when your parents died. We must ask Griphook whether your parents will was even read.”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed absently, having found another little box, inside the larger one. “Hey, there’s a bunch of jewelry here.”

“Excellent,” Voldemort said. “I confess, that’s the main reason we are here. Your Lordship rings should be there.”

“Lordship? I thought I was still just an Heir.”

“Well, now that you’re an adult, you may accept your Lordships. You’ll find a similar one in the Black Vault, I’d expect.” Voldemort deftly plucked two gold rings from the jewelry box. “We’ll take these with us as well, and when you decide you’re ready, you can begin to wear them.”

Harry was still looking around the Vault with an awestruck look on his face, but his stomach growled then, prompting Voldemort to cast Tempus. “Merlin, it’s long past lunchtime. If I promise that you can return here soon, can I persuade you to leave and get something to eat?”

With a last wistful gaze at the Vault, Harry nodded, and followed Voldemort to the cart, carefully carrying the the box from his parents. When they reached the lobby, Harry extended a hand to Griphook. “Thank you, sir, truly. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you were able to get me access to my family’s things earlier than expected.”

Griphook smiled again. “I am happy to have helped. If you need anything after today, you need only ask,” he said.

“I assume that someone is responsible for managing my family’s accounts, right?” Harry asked.

“Yes, the head Goblin is responsible for the Potter and Black portfolios.” Griphook answered.

“Is it possible to change that?” Harry asked.

“Why?” Griphook asked. “Are you unsatisfied with your treatment?” Voldemort stiffened. Harry was dangerously close to insulting the goblins.

“No, of course not,” Harry laughed. “How could I be, when I didn’t know I _had_ a portfolio until this morning? I was just wondering if you could take on that responsibility. I don’t really know anybody else here, and I'm sure that the head Goblin is great, but I know you, and I trust you, Mister Griphook. I’d be really grateful, so long as you had the time to take it on.”

“Ah,” Griphook’s countenance changed as he realized Harry’s intent. “It will be arranged, Mister Potter. I appreciate your trust in me.”

“I appreciate that you’ve always been honest with me, Mister Griphook. Please let me know if I can ever help you with anything.”

“May your vaults overflow, Mister Potter,” Griphook smiled.

Voldemort led Harry to a nearby restaurant, and secured them a private table, reflecting on what had transpired. Harry had an incredible knack for disarming others. The Goblin, a member of a normally private and easily-offended race, was now a firm supporter. If he’d had any doubt, Voldemort was convinced…Harry would be a most valuable member of his Death Eaters.

Harry was quiet, toying with his food. Voldemort watched him curiously for a while, then remarked, “You’re not eating much.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be wasteful,” Harry said.

“Is something bothering you?”

“That stuff has been there since I was a baby, and nobody ever told me. Every time I think that I understand how little anybody cared for me, I find more evidence to the contrary.”

“Your parents obviously cared for you,” Voldemort said carefully. He knew that this might backfire on him, as it was because of him that Harry’s parents had been lost in the first place.

“They did, but they trusted the wrong people. Dumbledore’s cause was greater than their desire for my safety. They could have left. If they’d moved to another country when they learned of the prophecy…”

“Harry,” Voldemort looked closely at him. “What was your adoptive family like?”

Harry was silent for so long that Voldemort didn’t think that he was going to answer. He was surprised when Harry finally said “Mostly they ignored me. Kept me in my…cupboard” His eyes looked impossibly green, and Voldemort wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone look so sad. Very very gently, Voldemort probed Harry’s mind, and saw a memory of a little boy, far too skinny, quietly crying in a dark, small space. He battled his desire to rend these Muggles apart, and retreated quickly to avoid detection, as Harry said, “Unless I did something bad…My Uncle Vernon…he didn’t like me very much. I was bad a lot of the time.”

Voldemort had a million questions, but he didn’t want to break the simple thread of trust that Harry was weaving between them. “What was the worst part?” He asked gently.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he said softly. “It was bearable when they ignored me, even if I was hungry and lonely and stuff.” Harry examined his hands, very closely. “But if they remembered I was around, it made them angry, and they would say stuff. Mean stuff.” Voldemort wasn’t sure why he reached out and took one of Harry’s hands, but he was glad he did. Harry gave a single, sad sniffle and continued, “It was seeing how nice they were to Dudley that was the worst, I think. He was my cousin, and they just…really loved him. They treated him really nicely, so it was just me that they didn’t like. It just reminded me that I wasn’t someone who deserved to be treated nicely.”

Something about the way Harry said the last sentence, so matter-of-fact, as though it was a simple truth that he was unworthy of kindness, made Voldemort’s heart stutter. It was a small wonder that the child had felt he needed to sacrifice his safety, over and over, for others. Dark Lords do not, as a general rule, feel remorse, and so Voldemort felt confused by the deep sense of shame that overcame him. He hated the feeling, and tried to distract himself with a bout of familiar, satisfying anger. “Harry, would you like to go to Privet Drive today?”

Harry started. “What? No, of course not. I never want to go there again.”

“I’m going to kill your guardians, Harry. The question is simply whether you want to be there, or if you trust me to do so on your behalf.”

“Voldemort, no. You can’t just kill people because they were shitty caregivers.”

Voldemort smiled. “Of course I can, Harry. You’re under my protection now, and I always avenge those who are in my care.”

“I don’t want your avenge…ment. I want you to leave them alone.”

“Let’s agree to disagree, then,” Voldemort said peaceably.

“If we agree to disagree, does that mean that you’ll just go kill them the moment my back is turned?”

Voldemort shrugged. This wasn’t going as he expected. He didn’t expect Harry to be thrilled about him murdering on his behalf, but honestly. Didn’t Harry realize what an honour it was to be protected?

Harry smiled at him. With the practiced ease of someone who was able to predict negative moods and diffuse them, he said “I appreciate that you’re protective of me, I really do. I just…I have so much blood on my hands already. I don’t know how many more deaths I can cause.” Seeing Voldemort’s confusion, he patted his hand. “I really do like that you want to take care of me.” He looked away, as though he’d confessed something truly private.

Voldemort decided to change the subject. As long as Harry didn’t extract a promise from him, he could do whatever he wished with the scum who had hurt his little Horcrux. “Very well. What would you like to do this afternoon?”

“Could we go look at the Quidditch shop?” Harry asked eagerly.

Voldemort sighed. “I don’t like when you fly.”

“We could just look,” Harry said with a hopeful little smile, and, inexplicably charmed, Voldemort was unable to refuse. As the approached the Quidditch shop, they passed the Magical Menagerie. A cage full of Kneazle kittens was in the front window. Harry stopped, his hands against the glass. Voldemort watched Harry with interest. His face was open, joyful, as he watched the tiny creatures.

“Harry,” Voldemort said, “would you like to have a pet?”

Harry’s face fell. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not very good with animals.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Voldemort said, “Nagini certainly loves you.”

“She’s different. She isn’t a _pet_.” Harry said. 

“You had an owl, did you not?” Voldemort asked. “A snowy?”

Harry’s face contorted with anguish. “Hagrid took her back,” he whispered. 

Fury and protectiveness raced through Voldemort’s body. “He broke the bonding spell?” he hissed.

Harry nodded. “After Dumble…after the Ministry, I guess he thought I couldn’t be trusted to take care of her.” His voice was so quiet that Voldemort had to lean very close to hear the words.

“We’ll get you another owl, a better one. One that nobody can ever take away from you,” he promised desperately, searching for anything that would take that look from Harry’s face.

Harry shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Hedwig was the best owl there was. It wouldn’t be right to replace her.”

Harry’s sadness lingered, even as he smiled at the playful kittens. Voldemort wanted to recapture the civility that they’d shared previously. “Let’s go to the Quidditch shop,” he said.

Harry’s face had regained its usual, wary expression. “Actually, I think I’d rather just go back to the Manor, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Voldemort said, cursing himself for being unable to restore Harry’s mood. Then, he cursed himself further, for _wanting_ to do so. What was _happening_ to him?

Back at the Manor, Harry disappeared into his rooms, and Voldemort escaped to his office. He wasn’t there long before Nagini entered through the open door. “Tom!” She hissed joyfully. “You took my Hatchling away. It’s good that you are back. Did you seduce him?”

“What?” Voldemort yelped.

“I heard the yellow-haired lady talking about it. Apparently, it’s a precursor to mating. It’s very important that you seduce Harry before you mate him.” Her voice was knowledgeable. Voldemort again questioned the depth of his stupidity at taking a snake for a familiar. He should have gotten a dog. Dogs don’t give sex advice to their Dark Lords. “So have you?” She pressed.

“Have I seduced Harry? No.” Voldemort answered flatly. “There will be no further discussion of this.”

“Stupid Wizard,” she hissed affectionately. “You know that I can smell you?”

“Stop it.”

“I can’t! It’s radiating from you. You are desperate to mate him. And…” her tongue probed at his cheek. He angrily swiped it away. “Tom…did you catch _feelings_?” 

“What?” Speaking to Nagini was like being on strong potions, he realized. It was impossible to follow the conversation. “What does that even mean?”

If a snake could grin, Nagini would be doing so. “I heard the yellow-haired offspring talking about it through the fire to one of his friends. Apparently, when you catch feelings, you’re _done for_.”

“Fuck. Off.” Voldemort said savagely. Nagini cast him an arch look and slithered away, leaving a furious Dark Lord, resolving to start locking his door.


	13. Yule

Harry had been surprised at how cordially Draco Malfoy had responded to his presence in the Manor. Whether it was born of duty to his parents, or fear of the Dark Lord, Draco had been respectful, almost…friendly. Given Draco’s earlier treatment of him, Harry was fearful of the Malfoy Heir, and found excuses to leave the room when Draco entered it, but he was grateful for the lack of outright hostility. Nagini, in her way, had learned that Draco had previously hurt her Hatchling, and had no compunctions about showing her displeasure. Despite his House’s affiliation with snakes, Draco was _terrified_ of Nagini, tensing whenever she entered a room and hastily making an excuse to leave it. Satisfied that he’d be safe, so long as Nagini were around, many of Harry’s fears lessened. Maybe he would enjoy the Yule holiday.

Voldemort had spent hours explaining Yule to him, going over the significance of the longest night, and explaining, in detail, the ritual that the family would complete. Narcissa had fussed with preparing robes, and decoration, and Lucius, who was responsible for securing the log that would burn for twelve days, had promised Harry that he could join him in his hunt. Harry had never participated in any holiday traditions, save the ones at Hogwarts. The idea of having something like a family with whom to celebrate, both warmed and terrified Harry.

Early in the day, Harry paced his room, fretting about the ceremony, and wondering if anyone would believe him if he feigned illness. No, he reasoned, if Narcissa thought that he was sick, he’d be confined to his bed for days, and fussed over even more than if he just attended. He’d been sick twice with nerves, and was worriedly staring out the window when Lucius arrived at his doorway. “Ready, Harry?” Lucius asked.

Harry nodded, his face pale. He summoned his winter cloak, and silently followed Lucius outside. “Are you alright, Harry?” Lucius asked, as Harry trudged through the snow behind him, silent as a ghost.

“I’m fine,” Harry sighed. When Lucius stopped, raised an eyebrow at him, and cleared the snow from a nearby log, Harry sighed again, and sat next to him. “I’m nervous,” he confessed. “I’m afraid I’m going to foul things up. I don’t know why Voldemort wants me to participate in the ritual.”

Lucius smiled. “You act like this is a life or death situation,” he said gently. “It isn’t. The ritual can’t go wrong if you lose your place, or forget to do something. It’s mostly an opportunity for family to share a night together, and to welcome the longer days.”

“It’s important, though,” Harry said firmly. “It needs to go right.”

“Why?” Lucius asked. “What makes the stakes so high for you?”

“Because,” Harry said in a small voice, “if I do it wrong, then I’ll let people down, and they won’t…”

“Harry,” Lucius said, putting an arm around Harry’s small shoulders. “Do you think that if you do something wrong that we won’t care about you anymore? Or that we’ll somehow exclude you from things?”

Harry shrugged miserably. “It’s happened before.”

“Not with us,” Lucius said firmly. “Harry, we care about you. Narcissa and I consider you a part of the family. There’s nothing you could do that would make us stop caring about you.”

Harry looked at him, so desperate to believe him that he stopped breathing for a moment. Lucius smiled. “Breathe, Harry. Everyone here cares about you. Severus, Nagini, The Dark Lord…”. Harry snorted, and Lucius held him tighter. “He does, Harry. Our Lord doesn’t show his feelings in the same way that I might, but he does care about you.”

“As his Horcrux holder,” Harry said.

“No,” Lucius argued. “If that were true, he’d simply leave you in a room somewhere, fed, and provided with necessities, but ignored. He wants you to be happy. He’s spending time to teach you about our ways. Those aren’t the actions of someone who sees you as a mere vessel.”

“I think he wants to use me,” Harry said shrewdly. “Even though everyone hates me again, their opinions have changed before, and if the Boy Who Lived endorses Voldemort, it would do a lot to pave the way to respectability.”

Lucius wondered how anyhow could have thought this child to be stupid. “I’m sure that Our Lord has considered this as well, he’s always planning, but even if that were his aim, there are much simpler ways to gain your endorsement. I’m afraid you’ll have to believe me, Harry. In his way, Our Lord cares for you.”

“For now,” Harry said mildly.

Lucius’ eyes softened, but he knew better than to try to convince Harry that someone valued him for any reason other than what he could do for them. It had been hard enough to make tentative inroads towards convincing him that he and Narcissa loved him. Even still, when he felt vulnerable, Harry started to seek out confirmation that their approval was conditional. Lucius had grown up with cruel, distant parents, and knew full well the scars that neglect could leave. Harry’s issues wouldn’t disappear overnight, and all they could do was patiently remind him, every time, that he was loved. “So,” he said, “shall we find our Yule log?”

Normally, this process included all able-bodied men in the family, but, in deference to Harry’s residual shyness, they’d agreed to allow he and Lucius to complete the task on their own. Draco had whinged, but Nagini’s timely arrival had quickly ended the discussion. Harry seemed to come alive in the forest, his bright eyes darting here and there as he watched a red squirrel climb a tree and chatter angrily at them.

The tree was located, and promptly felled, thanks to a judicious use of magic. Lucius levitated the log and it obediently followed behind them. As they approached the Manor, Lucius placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Feel a little better?” He asked.

Harry nodded. “Much, ta. You’re sure that I won’t get in trouble if I mess up tonight?”

“I’m sure, Harry.”

Harry found himself trembling as he completed the ritual bath that would cleanse him for the Yule ritual. The water was fragrant with pine and holly berries, and Harry carefully washed himself three times, as instructed by Narcissa. He stepped from the bath, accepted the towel from the waiting house elf, and dried himself thoroughly. The elf waited with his ceremonial robes. Harry tried to slow his breathing, stepping into the short green tunic, and accepting the heavy fur robes. “You is to be sitting, Master Harry,” the elf squeaked. Harry sat on the stool, and felt the deft hands of the elf braiding his hair in an intricate pattern. Finally, a wreath of holly was placed over his forehead. “You is ready!” The elf cried in delight. “You is a wonderful Holly King!”

Blushing, Harry made his way to the Hall, where the family was already gathered. Narcissa, who was fussing with a large cauldron, looked up at his arrival. “Harry!” She cried delightedly. “You look simply perfect! Happy Yule, my darling.” Her arms surrounded him firmly, and she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. Harry blossomed like a flower under her ministrations. His cheeks flushed, and he returned the embrace, whispering something into Narcissa’s ear.

Voldemort stood in an alcove, watching the preparations. Watching Harry. He had never appeared so beguiling. The rich colour of his tunic and wreath made his eyes appear greener than usual. His hair was braided back, revealing a high forehead, and displaying his scar more prominently. His lips were full and red, and when Narcissa said something to make him smile, his white teeth flashed. Voldemort was unable to deny what he’d been protesting all along. Harry was beautiful, and Voldemort wanted him. Having admitted it, he was no better prepared to actually make such a thing happen, so he remained where he was. Harry gathered the rich silver robes around himself, and suddenly looked up. As though he’d read his mind, Harry’s eyes met Voldemort’s and a tiny moment of heat flared between them, before Harry ducked his head, and returned to his conversation with Narcissa.

Never one to miss out on an opportunity to annoy, Nagini hissed, “Is this your mating ritual?”

“No,” Voldemort said flatly.

“Why the fancy skins, then?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Humans,” she scoffed. “Well, don’t wait too long, Tom. The small yellow-haired one stares at the Hatchling a little too often, if you ask me.” With that, she disappeared in a corner to watch (and mock, no doubt) the strange behaviour of her humans.

The hour approached, and so Voldemort stepped forward, his long brown robes and oak leaf crown rustling. Lucius smiled at him. “Ready, My Lord?”

“Let’s begin,” Voldemort answered. Lucius cast the circle, and lit the ceremonial flames of red, green and gold.

“From the darkness is born the light... The darkest night of the year lies at the threshold, the wheel turns and we honour the darkness.” Lucius said, his voice rich, and pure, and resonant.

Draco knelt and lit the black candle, saying “We call upon the fire, the wind, the water and the earth as we welcome the rebirth of the sun. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” the assembled group repeated.

Lucius continued, “We call upon the Mother, who creates life from nothing, who welcomes light from darkness. Bring us new light, as we welcome your offspring. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” the group replied.

Narcissa, clad in shimmering white robes, stepped forward. She lit the white candle, saying “I come to thee as maiden. Dark my surroundings, and cold be this night, but the sacred light will be reborn. Two will be one as the wheel turns, and the brothers exchange the sceptre. The Child Divine, the most honoured Sun returns with the dawn. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be.”

Voldemort stepped forward, lighting the yellow candle. “As the wheel turns, I bow to my brother, surrendering the Athame to the dawning of the Holly King. I lovingly bestow my gifts upon my brother. Behold the Holly King, whose verdant green charms the white of the forest until the return of the light and the day of the Oak King. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be”

Voldemort bowed low, forehead on the ground in the centre of the circle, the Athame extended in outstretched hands as Harry stepped forward. Harry inclined his head, and sank to his knees. “I accept the Athame from my brother the Oak King, and accept the responsibility of guardianship of the spirits until his return. I gratefully accept his gifts, and grant him the kiss of rest until his return. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be.” 

Harry lifted the Athame and quickly cut a neat slash across his palm before gripping one of Voldemort’s hands and doing the same. He clasped their bleeding hands together. As their blood mingled, their magic reached out and did the same, causing both men to gasp. Unprepared for the overwhelming sensations, Harry blinked a few times before continuing the ritual. He spelled the wounds clean, banishing any remaining blood and placed his palms on either side of Voldemort’s face. Voldemort’s eyes fell closed, and Harry murmured, “Sleep, my other, my counter, my brother. Entrust in me our shared gifts.” He gently kissed each of Voldemort’s closed eyes, before doing the same to his forehead. “So mote it be,” Harry whispered.

“So mote it be”

Narcissa rose, her robes billowing around her. She gently sprinkled the ashes from the previous Yule log atop the new one. Summoning a chalice, she sprinkled wine atop the log and said “You who have died are now reborn. Lend us your light through the winter months as we await the spring. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be”

Narcissa lit the log with her wand, and presented the chalice of wine to each member of her family in turn. As they drank, she kissed each of their cheeks, followed by a kiss to their lips. The log blazed merrily, and Lucius closed the circle. The ritual complete, the family would now eat, and drink through the longest night.

His role completed, Harry retreated to a sofa in a corner to reflect on the ritual. He’d never felt more in tune with his magic. His eyes were wide, his every nerve ending felt as though it were electrified. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Harry closed his eyes, and breathed, his pitiful occlumency skills inadequate to cope with the rush of magic and flood of emotions coursing through his system.

“Are you well, Harry?” The voice beside him made Harry jump. His eyes flew open.

“Yes, I’m alright.” Harry said.

Voldemort chuckled. “I wonder if you’ll ever answer that question honestly.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s all relative. I’m not being hunted, or hurt. Nobody has said anything terrible to me yet. In the big scheme of things, I’m alright.”

“Very well. What did you think of your first ritual?”

“It was a lot. I liked it, really liked it, but I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

“That’s normal. Everyone experiences a rush during a powerful ritual such as this one, and, because we exchanged blood, the effect is doubly powerful.”

“Thank you.” Harry’s eyes were boring into Voldemort’s. “Thank you for including me in this. Thank you for showing me this.”

“Ah, my little treasure, you’re seeing that there’s value in our traditions?”

“I never said that there wasn’t any value,” Harry protested. “I just didn’t understand. Nobody showed me!”

“I know,” Voldemort soothed. “I’m teasing you, Harry. I’m glad that you’re enjoying yourself.”

Somehow, during their exchange, they’d drawn nearer to one another on the sofa. Voldemort could feel the heat of Harry’s thigh, close to his own. Later, he’d wonder what prompted him to do what he did next. As though it belonged to someone else, he watched in wonder as his arm raised, and encircled Harry’s shoulder. For the tiniest moment, Harry stiffened, and Voldemort tensed, awaiting rejection. Then, with a little wiggle, Harry nuzzled closer to Voldemort’s side and leaned his head into the Dark Lord’s chest. “Tired,” Harry said faintly.

“You should eat something,” Voldemort said to him. “We’ll be here quite a bit longer.”

“In a bit,” Harry said. Voldemort could smell the faint scent of apples from Harry’s hair. Harry’s breaths slowed, and before long, he was asleep, held firmly against the Dark Lord’s chest. Feeling a tenderness he’d never experienced before, Voldemort reached down, and pressed his lips to the sweet smelling hair, tamed for once by its braids. Harry sighed in his sleep and nuzzled closer. They stayed this way, for a while, Voldemort hardly daring to breathe, lest he disturb the sleeping man. As he watched, Harry’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked a few times in confusion. Voldemort began to withdraw his arm, but Harry grasped it and pulled it tightly around him. “No,” he whispered sleepily. “’s’nice. Feel safe.” Unable to help himself, Voldemort pressed another kiss into Harry’s hair.

Harry looked up at him, his eyes at half-mast, uncertain. Emboldened by the reaction he’d gotten so far, Voldemort decided to press his luck. Without thinking about any potential consequences, his lips touched Harry’s, and he gently kissed him before drawing back and looking into his eyes. Harry touched his lips, as though to confirm what had just happened, and he gave Voldemort such a sweet, tentative little smile that Voldemort kissed him again, this time applying just the tiniest pressure to Harry’s lower lip, taking it into his mouth for a second, then releasing it. Harry’s cheeks pinked, and he stared at Voldemort in wonder for a moment, before dropping his eyes.

“Was that okay?” Voldemort asked softly. The sweet smile reappeared, and Harry nodded, his eyes meeting Voldemort’s again. “May I do it again?” As Harry nodded a final time, Voldemort’s hand found its way to the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry lifted his chin, allowing Tom access to his mouth. This time, Voldemort gently licked the seam of Harry’s lips, and when they parted, allowed his tongue to steal inside, dancing against Harry’s own tongue.

When their lips parted, something in the expression on Voldemort's face made Harry still. He had seen many different expressions on the man's face, both in his head, and on Voldemort’s face in person. He'd seen cold fury, incandescent rage, sneering mockery, smug satisfaction. Harry had even, long ago in a damp Chamber, seen calculating charm. But nothing prepared him for the gentle softening of Voldemort's eyes as he gazed down upon him. There was no derision in the curl of his lips, and the keen gaze reflected curiosity, interest. There was none of the desire to possess, to own. Something had changed, and although Harry didn't know exactly what it was, he was enthralled.

Severus, standing across the room, getting slowly and quietly drunk on the mulled mead that the elves were readily supplying, watched with trepidation. He had seen the Dark Lord recruit young witches and wizards before. Although madness had overtaken him in recent years, Severus was unable to forget the way that a younger Lord Voldemort had regarded his recruits as though they were the most interesting person in the world, the most valuable, the most treasured. And Harry was under his thrall, evidenced by the wonder-filled gaze he was levelling at the Dark Lord. 

Severus knew full well that Harry’s psyche danced on the cliff at the edge of sanity and madness, and that it would take little to send him hurtling over the edge. He'd been unprepared for the sense of terror that the notion prompted. Like so many times before, Severus merely watched, awaiting the inevitable, and prepared to do whatever it took to restore the boy in the aftermath. He was uncertain, however, of how many times he would be able to prop the Boy who Lived back into the semblance of sanity. So troubling was Severus' rumination, that he didn't hear Narcissa approach him. Her hands were cool on his arm. "He's been caught in his snare," Severus whispered, horror-filled.

"Perhaps," Narcissa said. Her voice was calm, unruffled.

"I fear this will be his undoing."

"It might be. Or, it could be the saving of them both."

"I'm unwilling to risk Harry in this gamble."

"It's not your decision," she reminded him, her voice kind.

"He's a child."

"He isn't," she said firmly. "I don't think he ever has been." Severus acknowledged the truth of this with a quirk of his lips. "Have faith in him, Severus. I daresay that Harry knows to guard his heart carefully, after all he's been through."

"He doesn't," Severus said miserably. "He places his trust, and his love, more generously than is deserved."

Narcissa quirked a brow. "Rather like someone else I know," she said. "but fear not, Severus. If anyone can remind Our Lord how to be human, it's Harry."

Severus didn't reply, but he carefully watched through the long night, as Harry looked up at Voldemort as though he'd invented sunshine. 


	14. Saviour or Victim?

When Harry awoke the following morning, it was with a lightness of heart that he hadn't felt in months. The previous night had changed him. Something indefinable had happened between him and Voldemort last night. Harry wasn't sure exactly what, but he couldn't wait to find out. Lucius watched Harry’s slightly dreamy expression with amusement and raised an eyebrow at Narcissa. They’d discussed the burgeoning…whatever between the Dark Lord and Harry. Narcissa was in favour, intuiting that it would be good for both of them. She’d shared Severus’ concerns with Lucius, and, although he wasn’t wholeheartedly in favour of a relationship between the Dark Lord and his surrogate son, he also was pragmatic enough to realize that there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to prevent it.

“Did you enjoy your first Yule, Harry?” Lucius smiled across the table at Harry, who seemed happier than he’d seen him in a long time. He didn’t have the same expression of joy that he’d sported when flying, but he seemed…hopeful, and Lucius quite liked the way he wore it.

“Yes, Lucius, thank you for including me,” Harry’s smile was luminous. Lucius allowed himself to hope, for a moment, that Harry had turned a corner.

“You were a wonderful Holly King, my darling,” Narcissa said. Harry thanked her, and the arrival of Voldemort at the table, along with the morning’s Prophet dispelled any further discussion. The four of them had established a routine, along with their breakfast. As part of Harry’s training in current events and politics, he got the headlines first, while Voldemort took the editorial section, Lucius the business pages, and Narcissa the society ones. When each person had read their section, they rotated them to their neighbour, so, by the time breakfast had finished, they’d all read the entire paper.

Harry graced Voldemort with a shy smile as he accepted his section. Voldemort held the contact of their hands for a moment longer than was necessary, prompting an appealing blush from Harry. As it was Yule, the paper was a slimmer volume than usual, and Lucius finished his section quickly. Thus, he was watching Harry as he read an article with mounting distress. Concerned, Lucius watched as Harry’s eyes grew wider, and colour disappeared from his face. He didn’t think that Harry noticed that he was chewing on his own thumbnail, something that Lucius had noticed Harry doing when he desperately wanted the comfort of sucking it, but was in a place where he thought the habit would be noticed.

“Harry?” Lucius asked, noticing that Harry’s breath was coming in tiny little gasps. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

Harry looked up at Lucius, his lower lip trembling. “Did you do this?”

“Do what, Harry? I don’t understand.”

“Did you leak this information to the Prophet? Did you have someone write these things about me?”

“What things?” Lucius was standing, and hovering over Harry’s shoulder, before Narcissa had noticed that something was wrong. Quickly, Lucius scanned the article. With rising dismay, he saw that it was an explicit retelling of the details of Harry’s life. Titled _“Saviour or Victim? Harry Potter’s tragic betrayal”_, the article outlined how Harry been placed, at Albus Dumbledore’s behest, with Muggle relatives who abused and neglected him. It described, at length, his accommodations in the cupboard under the stairs, how he’d been regularly starved and beaten. How he’d never known love.

How, each year, under the Magical Guardianship of Albus Dumbledore, he’d been allowed in life-threatening situations, designed to finely hone him as Dumbledore’s weapon. It described his experiences retrieving the Philosopher’s stone, which had been carelessly stored in a school filled with children, and guarded by dangerous enchantments. How he’d singlehandedly faced and killed a Basilisk. It spent several paragraphs discussing the Triwizard Tournament, and how his Magical Guardian hadn’t bothered to secure legal representation to prevent him from competing, after being fraudulently entered. 

Lastly, it described how, after being cleared of all charges following Dumbledore’s death, Dumbledore’s followers had ignored him, allowed him to be mistreated, leading up to a suicide attempt on Hogwarts grounds. Where, the article wanted to know, had the oversight of Albus Dumbledore been? How had he been allowed to disregard the safety and agency of a little boy who had already done so much for their world? And why had the community turned on Harry Potter? Where was the justice? Albus Dumbledore, revered bastion of the Light had much to answer for, the article concluded, and the fact that nobody had stood up for this child, was the Wizarding World’s greatest shame.

As he finished reading the article, Lucius was shaken. Harry, he knew, was shy, and desperately wanted to evade attention and be ‘normal’. An article spilling his most carefully-guarded secrets would devastate him. He turned to look at Harry, his concern heightening as he noted that distress was radiating from the young man in waves. He looked absolutely shattered. Lucius cursed inwardly. Harry had made such progress, and this threatened to resurrect all of his despair.. Who would have done such a thing?

“Lucius?” Harry’s voice was tiny, each word like a shard of glass. “Did you do this to me?”

“No, Harry,” Lucius assured him. “I had no idea.”

“Then who? Nobody knows about my…nobody knows about the Dursleys. And I thought that only Dumbledore knew about all the stuff that happened at school. How did they find out?”

He blinked rapidly, desperately trying to identify his betrayer. Suddenly, he went cold. “There was someone else who was there at all of the stuff that happened at Hogwarts. Someone who can pick through my mind at will.” He was very still, as though the slightest movement might shatter his composure.

Voldemort, who had been contentedly reading an article he’d written on creature rights, had put down his section of the paper when the waves of distress started to overwhelm him. He watched Harry reading the article, confused. Why would Harry be so upset? The Prophet was _defending_ him. Voldemort had paid enough to ensure that the tone of the article was protective of Harry. It was a genius move to resurrect his fallen public image.

Harry turned to face the Dark Lord, his devastation plainly displayed across his features. “Voldemort, why? Why would you do this to me?”

“I did it for you,” Voldemort replied calmly. “The bleating sheep who can't think for themselves will look at you differently now. You’ll be the darling of the Wizarding World again. And then you’ll take up your seats, and you’ll be one of the most powerful Wizards alive. I expected a little more gratitude, Harry. That article took a long time to put together.”

“G-gratitude? You want me to thank you for spilling my story out there for everyone to read?”

“It’s a means to an end, Harry.”

Harry’s face went very cold. “All for the greater good, Tom?”

“Yes, I suppose you can look at it that way.” Voldemort wasn’t at all sure what was happening. Lucius and Narcissa were practically spitting, they were so furious, and Harry was behaving strangely as well.

“I’m done,” Harry said, his voice very quiet, and very calm.

“Done?” Voldemort looked at Harry’s plate. The silly boy had barely touched at thing! “I’m done being a pawn. I’m done being a symbol. I’m nobody’s Saviour, I’m not a public interest story, I’m not a tool to be paraded out and made a spectacle of.”

“Harry, I don’t think you understand-”

“No, Tom. I understand perfectly. You stay the hell away from me.” Harry stood, and for a moment, Voldemort thought that he was about to storm from the room. Instead, he turned on his heel and apparated away. The Wards gave an almighty shriek, as they were ripped to tatters. Tom sat in shock. His anti-apparation wards were rock-solid, tied to so many runes that even Voldemort couldn’t apparate through them. And Harry had just shredded them. 

As he grappled with the fact that Harry had just rendered his home undefended, he suddenly realized something else. Harry was gone. Too shocked to be angry, he looked, mystified at Narcissa and Lucius. They were still livid. Lucius’ hand trembled around his wand, and two bright spots of colour had arisen on Narcissa’s high cheekbones. “How dare you?” Lucius asked.

“What the fuck just happened?” Voldemort demanded, still unable to generate any anger. He had lost control of this situation.

“You absolute…_shit_!” Narcissa cried. Voldemort goggled at her. Pureblooded women didn’t swear, and they certainly didn’t raise their voices at a meal.

Severus entered the room, Draco hot on his heels. “What just happened?” Severus demanded. “I heard someone apparate, and the wards are down.”

“Harry has gone,” Narcissa said, tears forming in her icy blue eyes. “Our Lord has betrayed his trust, and he apparated away. Severus, where could he have gone?”

“Potter apparated away? From here?” Draco’s eyes were like saucers.

“My Lord, what happened?” Severus wasn’t getting any reliable information from Narcissa, and Lucius sat like a statue, his hand gripped so tightly around the head of his cane that his knuckles had gone white.

“I have no earthly idea,” Voldemort confessed. “Harry got very upset about an article I had published in the Prophet to repair his image. He said he didn’t want to be a pawn, and he ripped my wards to shreds.”

Severus stalked over to the table, robes flaring behind him, and quickly read the article. With each paragraph, his unease grew. He reached the end of the article, and put his head in his hands. “Harry,” he mourned. “This will be his undoing.”

This, it seemed, was the final straw that Voldemort needed to become angry. Confusing waves of devastation were coming through the Horcrux bond, overwhelming his thought processes. “Why?” He demanded. “It’s all true, and it’s certainly the most complimentary article the Prophet’s ever written about him. Will someone tell me why everyone is so upset?”

Since all the adults in the room were in various stages of breakdown, Draco decided to try to explain. “My Lord, has Potter ever spoken of his childhood to you before?”

“Not in any detail,” Voldemort answered, with exaggerated patience, concentrating on dispelling the waves of nausea that were swirling through his system.

“He’s never mentioned it to anyone. Ever. Including my parents, and I think that they’re the only people he _does_ talk to. None of us knew, in school. And all that stuff that happened? The stone, the tournament? Even I could see how much he hated the attention. He just wanted to blend in. He never wanted people to pay attention to him.”

“Well, that’s stupid. This works to his advantage.”

“I know,” Draco said. “You and I would both see it that way, and so would my parents, and Severus, and any other Slytherin. We’re not opposed to twisting a circumstance to our advantage. But he’s not like that. That stuff is private to him, and having it plastered all over our world to see…there’s no way he’d see that as anything other than a betrayal.”

Voldemort considered this for a moment. At one point, he opened his mouth to respond, but promptly shut it again, and continued to think. Finally, overcome with unfamiliar emotions, and frustrated that his actions had been received so poorly, he stomped from the room.

Seething in his desk chair, the arrival of Nagini prompted a groan from an unhinged Dark Lord. “Go away, Nagini, I want to be alone.”

“I don’t care. What have you done, Tom?”

“I did what needed to be done.”

“The Hatchling is gone. I can't find him anywhere. Why did you chase him away?”

Voldemort snorted. “Oh, spare me. I haven’t the patience for your histrionics.”

So great was Nagini’s rage that she bared her fangs and hissed at him. She wasn’t even speaking, just expressing her fury in terrible spits of venom and saliva. Voldemort slammed his fist onto his desk. “Why does everyone in this house dance attendance on that boy? Am I the only one around here that remembers that we’re fighting a Merlin be-damned _war_ here? I’ve been too lax on all of you, most of all with Harry Fucking Potter. Get out of my sight, Nagini, we aren’t discussing this now.”

Nagini opened her mouth to say something, but the roar of rage, and the paperweight thrown in her direction changed her mind, and Nagini fled. As she made her way down the hall, she muttered angrily, promising retribution for the injury done to her Hatchling.

In the dining room, a whispered conversation was underway. Narcissa had given in to a storm of weeping, and Lucius held her to his chest, wiping away her tears. Severus looked thunderous, which, frankly, was a fairly common expression for him, but it was more commonly directed _at_ Harry, rather than about him. Draco seemed lost. He’d never seen his mother cry before, and his father was uncharacteristically quiet. “Godfather?”

“What is it Draco?” Severus’ voice was tired.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“I don’t know. I fear that this is going to send him back into the depression he suffered in the fall.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “I…I didn’t know. When we were picking on him. I didn’t know how bad it was for him.”

“I know, Draco. It doesn’t matter. You were doing what you were told, and he survived then. This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s _his_.” Narcissa’s tear sodden voice rose from her husband’s chest. “How will we find him?”

“Severus, where do you think he’s gone?”

“I don’t know, Lucius. I can’t imagine where he’d go. Certainly not back to his Muggle family’s home. And I doubt that he’d go back to Hogwarts, given his experiences there.” Severus’ heart ached that Lily’s child had nowhere to call home.

“Would he go to the Weasleys or to Granger’s Muggle house?” Draco wondered.

“I doubt it. They both rejected him, and none of the other Weasleys bothered to reach out to him.”

“He has to have gone somewhere that means something to him. You can’t just apparate to a random destination.”

“It’s Potter. If something can’t be done, he’ll do it,” Severus’ smile was thin. “But I agree. He’d go somewhere that feels safe. I just can’t imagine where that might be.”

The house elves pressed tea upon them, but nobody drank it, as they considered the fact that the darling of the Wizarding World had so few places that had been a haven for him. Several hours had passed, and they were all still sitting in the dining room, each lost in their own worried thoughts.

A week passed, and the doom-filled mood worsened throughout the Manor. Voldemort hadn’t been seen since his angry expulsion of Nagini from his office. He’d repaired the Wards, and had created new, strong ones around his office. The occupants of the Manor learned quickly to steer clear, as the wards sparked furiously when they approached.

When it became obvious that their Lord wasn’t going to emerge anytime soon, the remainder of Harry’s family assembled for a council of war. “The Death Eaters are becoming restless and uncertain,” Lucius said. “I’ve managed to dispel any unrest for the time being, but we’ll need to tell them something before they start getting ideas of their own.”

“What can we tell them?” Severus asked. “We can hardly say that the Dark Lord is having a temper tantrum over a fight with his boyfriend.”

“No,” agreed Lucius, “I think we’ll need to find something a bit more diplomatic than that. I’ve told them that he was away discussing a treaty with the Vampires, but that excuse will soon expire. I’m concerned that they’ll think that someone has weakened him. The last time that Our Lord was absent, it lasted for ten years, and we lost many supporters. If he doesn’t make an appearance soon, I fear that someone will attempt to step up and assume leadership of the Death Eaters.”

They all considered the effects of this. The Death Eaters, en masse, were not an intelligent bunch, more suited to following than leadership. Other than the very few Inner Circle members that Voldemort had taken into his confidence, allowing any one of them to assume leadership would destroy everything that Voldemort was working for.

“What if we told them the truth?” Draco, who hadn’t returned to Hogwarts after the break, was looking thoughtful. This suggestion was greeted by horror, and Draco chuckled as he continued. “Well, not exactly the truth. Our Lord is in negotiations with Harry Potter, with an aim to assume leadership of the Wizarding World.”

“There will be a mass revolt,” Lucius said. “There won’t be a single Death Eater left.”

“Well, they’re going to find out at some point,” Draco pointed out reasonably. “We might as well use it to our advantage now.”

“The timing is ideal,” Severus said. “The Death Eaters are restless, it has been too long since they’ve been sent on a mission. Only something truly shocking will convince them that Our Lord has a plan.”

“Some people won’t like this,” Lucius warned. “And I’m concerned about an uprising while Our Lord is…indisposed.”

“He’s left us with no choice,” Narcissa said cooly. “If he’s going to insist on sulking in his room like a child, it’s our responsibility to ensure that he has some sort of following left, once he’s back to himself.”

“Assuming he ever is back to himself,” Severus said gloomily. “Nevertheless, I can’t think of a better option. Well done, Draco. Lucius, as Our Lord’s second-in-command, it’s up to you to share the news.”

“I’ll need you all there, to assist with some of the less-stable ones,” Lucius sighed, looking at Narcissa.

“I suppose that means I’m to handle Bella?” Narcissa was resigned. “Very well.”

They called the faithful using the Dark Mark emblazoned on Lucius’s arm. It took almost no time for the entire army to assemble, the Death Eaters having learned early that tardiness was not tolerated. They stood, quiet, a little hostile as Lucius and Severus stood calmly on the podium, Narcissa and Draco off to one side. Lucius waited a moment or two longer, letting the tension build, and allowing unease to rise. Then, as the silence lingered to a near-breaking point, Lucius smiled, a cold, long-practiced near-sneer. “Good afternoon,” he greeted smoothly, decades of experience in managing his political and legal career paying off. He kept his voice quiet, grinning inwardly as the assembled Death Eaters leaned closer to hear him. “My apologies for a somewhat unorthodox and unplanned assembly. As you may know, Our Lord has been absent, negotiating with the Vampires of Romania in pursuit of forming an alliance. While this is encouraging news, I have brought you here, at the Dark Lord’s behest, in order to share a new development. This news will, I am certain, change the course of the war against the Light, and I am delighted to be allowed to communicate it to you.”

He paused, taking a long moment to further ensnare the attention of the Death Eaters. They were curious, hopeful. The war had not been without losses on the side of the Dark, and everyone, save a few of the more unstable, was eager to see its end. Lucius watched those members in particular. Greyback. Mulcair. Edson. They would require careful attention. None of them had entered the war for any principled reasons. They simply enjoyed hurting others. Lucius suspected that the Dark Lord would need to dispatch of them soon, as their penchant for mayhem didn’t align with the new direction he was headed. However, that was a problem for another day, and Lucius simply needed to keep the peace until the Dark Lord was back in command.

“An opportunity has presented itself to strike the last nail in the coffin of Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix,” he began. The crowd erupted in booing and hisses at the name of the leader of the Light, and with an indulgent smile, Lucius waited for the noise to settle. “This opportunity has seen Our Lord enter into negotiations with the Light’s most heavily-guarded symbol.” A pause, for effect. “Lord Voldemort is currently making significant inroads towards inducting Harry Potter into our number.” Lucius paused again, his face carefully bland. The room erupted in noise. Some of the less stupid Death Eaters were surprised, but immediately saw how Potter could be used to further the Dark Lord’s aims. Others, conditioned by years of derision and hatred towards Harry, reacted angrily. Bellatrix, Mulcair, Edson, Greyback, and, surprisingly, Jugson had erupted in fury. Lucius allowed the disruption for a full thirty seconds before he shot sparks from the end of his wand, and with a wordless Sonorus, said “Silence.”

Instantly, the room quieted, although Lucius could still hear the odd mutter throughout the crowd. “I did not call you here to entertain your opinion of Our Lord’s plans,” he hissed. “The Dark Lord thought that you deserved to be invited into his confidence regarding this latest campaign. He will be most interested to learn which of you openly questioned the rightness of it.” That quieted the dissenters rather smartly, he noted with approval. “I do not have any additional information to share with you. Those who have direct instructions from the Dark Lord should continue to obey. Those who are not currently under orders should wait patiently for him to summon you again. It goes without saying,” he cautioned cooly, “that your vow of obedience to the Dark Lord includes discretion, and those who betray this confidence will be…dealt with, promptly. I also caution you against any action that has not been specifically instructed by Our Lord. This is not the time to disrupt his carefully laid plans with any innovation. You are dismissed.” With that, Lucius stalked from the room without a backward look. Severus and Draco followed. Lucius did not break his stride until he reached the confines of the private dining room. Once the door closed behind them, he sunk to the floor, his breath coming fast as the adrenalin left his body.

“Lucius, that was masterful,” Severus commented, his smile approving.

“I nearly wet myself,” Lucius said with a small grin. “I don’t know how the Dark Lord does it.”

“Father,” Draco’s eyes were wide with admiration. “You have to teach me how to do that.”

Narcissa had remained behind, every muscle in her body tense as she carefully watched her sister. Predictably, her sister had become undone at the notion of the Dark Lord aligning with her most despised adversary. Bellatrix had been more offended by Harry Potter’s existence than that of Dumbledore, blaming him for her beloved Lord’s banishment as a wraith for a decade. She’d been alarmingly fixated on the child’s demise, and, after the night in the Ministry, when she’d sent Sirius tumbling into the Veil, she’d cruelly baited him. Now, faced with the ultimate betrayal by her Lord, Bellatrix was quickly dissembling into uncontrollable anger. “Bella,” Narcissa warned. “You’re not to question Our Lord.”

“Don’t you see, Cissy?” Bellatrix hissed, her wild eyes fixing on Narcissa’s. “Someone has misled him. Our Lord would never…he wouldn’t…”

“Bella, darling, do you really think that?” Narcissa made her voice soothing. “Our Lord is the most powerful Wizard alive. Who could mislead him? Do you really have so little faith in him?”

This caused Bellatrix to shriek in further rage. “How dare you? I have more faith than any of you!”

“Then why are you doubting him?” Narcissa said, smoothing her sister’s hair away from her face. “Darling, you must trust that Our Lord knows what he’s doing.”

A tiny crease of unease appeared between Bellatrix’s fine brows. Rudolphus, who had been hovering anxiously nearby, approached and took his wife’s arm. “It will be fine, Bella,” he said softly. “Of course it’s part of Our Lord’s plan.”

Bellatrix whimpered in confusion. Her every instinct told her that the Potter brat was an enemy, but her fealty to her Lord warred with her impulses. Since her time in Azkaban, Bellatrix had struggled to understand even the most simple nuances, and reconciling these warring ideas threatened the bedrock of her mental foundation. “Bella,” Narcissa said. “I am instructing you to be calm. I insist that you listen to me. You don’t want me to have to use Familia Vinculum, do you?”

Bellatrix shook her head, eyes widening in fear. The spell was an ancient piece of Black family magic. Translating to ‘family loyalty’, the spell identified the strongest living member of the family, and commanded all other Blacks to obey without question. It also had the side effect of ruthlessly plundering one’s mind as the magic determined strength and loyalty. Their father had been rather partial to the spell, and Narcissa suspected that its overuse had set Bella on the path to her current level of sanity. “I’ll listen, Cissy,” she whimpered, suddenly childlike in her terror.

“Of course you will, my darling sister,” Narcissa said, caressing her sibling’s cheek with her hand. “‘Dolphus, why don’t you take Bella home to get some rest?”

Her sister thusly dispatched, Narcissa hurried to the family dining room where she collapsed in relief in her husband’s arms. “Bella all sorted?” Severus asked, his tone a little wry. Severus had no patience for the eldest Black sister.

“She is,” Narcissa said. “Darling, that was spectacular. You were marvellous.”

“It bought us time,” Lucius said. “Now we just need to get Our Lord’s mind back on the plan."


End file.
